Out
by rosiesbar
Summary: Part Four of my Hawk/Trap series, 'In All Kinds of Weather'. Follows on a few months after 'Five Times…' and maybe a month or so after 'Snapshot'. It's the late summer of 1951. Hawkeye and Trapper have been sleeping together for a while, and have grown close... and careless. (SLASH. No graphic content. Contains depictions of homophobia and homophobic language.)
1. Awakening

**Korea – September, 1951**

Trapper was just drifting off to sleep when he felt his blanket lift back, and a warm, skinny body slip into the cot beside him. Dozy as he was, he offered only a half-hearted protest: "Knock it off, Hawkeye. I'm beat!" But the roaming hands that massaged his aching shoulders knew just how to coax new life into him, even at this late hour, and sleep began to lose its appeal to his tired muscles. His mind, however, was less convinced. "C'mon, Hawk, this is dumb. Anyone could come walkin' in, an' how are we gonna explain this?"

"No-one's gonna walk in." Hawkeye's voice was muffled, his lips far too preoccupied with Trapper's neck to put much effort into forming words. "Frank won't be back from Tokyo 'til lunchtime tomorrow. We'd be crazy not to make the most of this."

Trapper sighed. Blue eyes gazed up at him as a patch of moonlight caught Hawkeye's eager face. He quirked an eyebrow and grinned, waiting for permission to continue. Trapper reached out, cupping his cheek gently as he kissed him. "Why can I never resist you?"

He felt Hawkeye smile into the kiss, and then he felt all manner of other, pleasant things as clothes and underclothes were shed, hands made their way over hot, sweat-slicked skin, and their breath hitched and echoed in the tiny tent. It was a hurried, awkward tryst in a tiny, cramped space, but alone time was precious in this place, and it seemed foolish not to waste the opportunity. Trapper's army cot creaked under them, hardly designed for such activities.

Hawkeye was nothing if not inventive, and a lover of his talent and experience could turn the most hurried, furtive tumble into a thoroughly pleasant experience. At last, panting and sated, Trapper gathered Hawkeye in his arms, smiling contentedly. Hawkeye chuckled.

"See – I told you it was a good idea."

* * *

The noise that awoke them shattered what should have been a pleasant post-coital snooze. Hawkeye was awake first, sitting bolt upright, squinting into the darkness, unseeing, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The Swamp was pitch black, the moon having vanished behind the clouds, leaving the camp in darkness. Panicking, he shook the still-stirring Trapper. "Trapper, wake up! Did you hear something?"

Trapper rubbed his eyes. The tent was still and silent, and totally, utterly dark. The camp was dead, everybody sleeping, no doubt, save for Klinger, whose court shoes could be heard crunching in the distance as he walked his patrol. Whatever had startled Hawkeye was either long gone, or a figment of his imagination.

"You're dreamin'," Trapper muttered, getting comfy again and pulling Hawkeye back into his arms for a comforting snuggle. "Go back to sleep."

"I'm _telling_ you!" Hawkeye pulled away, swatting at Trapper's hands. "Just do me a favour and check, would you?" He grabbed insistently at Trapper's arm. "Come on, come on! Just get the light!"

Sighing, Trapper sat up beside him and groped for the light switch. On the third go he found it. He pulled the cord, and the lamp flickered into life. The tent was immediately illuminated by the dim light of the weak bulb, and, along with it, the frozen, stunned figure of Frank Burns, standing in the middle of it with his mouth hanging open, a shattered flashlight at his feet.

It was more than evident that the flashlight hitting the ground was the sound that had awoken them, and that the uncompromising situation Frank had found them in was the sight that had caused him to drop it. Frank stared at them. Hawkeye stared at Frank. Trapper dropped his head and stared at the blankets. The silence seemed to go on forever, the distant crickets chirping their melody in the still night air. Frank's eyes were wide as saucers, and Hawkeye shifted uncomfortably under his condemning gaze, painfully aware of Trapper's naked body pressed up against him under their thin little blanket; of how this must look...

In the end, Frank spoke first – if you could call it that. "You… you…!"

Hawkeye couldn't bear to let him get any further, so he did the first thing that came to mind: he laughed. He threw his head back and launched into the best performance of hysterical cackling he'd ever managed in his life. He put his heart and soul into it – he channelled every ounce of energy and dramatic talent he had in him – and as he 'calmed down' he pointed at Frank, still convulsing with giggles. "Oh, Frank – your _face_! That was _classic_!"

Frank stared at them, unmoving. His eyes flickered from Hawkeye to Trapper, and, as Hawkeye's boisterous laughter died down, Trapper glanced up. He was petrified. Frozen in the headlights of Frank's disapproving glare, his whole life flashed before him: everything he could lose; his wife; his daughters; his career. Everything hinged on this moment, but, try as he might, he couldn't force himself to play along with Hawkeye's charade. He knew – he just _knew_ – Frank wouldn't buy it. The tent reeked of sex and sweat, Frank hadn't been due home for hours, and Hawkeye was sporting the best collection of hickies Trapper had ever bestowed upon his pretty little neck. He couldn't hold Frank's gaze. His face flushed with heat, tears stung his eyes, and he dropped his head again. Overcome with shame, he looked back down at the blanket, which was the only thing sparing their last shred of dignity. "Shit…"

"I _knew_ it!" Frank was practically beside himself with fury and self-righteousness. He jabbed an accusing finger at each of them. "I knew there was something wrong with you two _degenerates_! I'm telling Colonel Blake!" Turning on his heel, Burns shot out of the Swamp.

"Frank, wait!" Hawkeye was already scrambling off Trapper's cot and snatching his robe up from the floor. "Thanks a lot _,_ Trapper! Would it have killed you to maybe _try_ and play along?"

Trapper couldn't think clearly. His mind was languishing in a thick fog of shock and fury, and he was only vaguely aware of the door to the Swamp banging closed as Hawkeye pursued the apoplectic Major Burns out into the compound. He had to do something.

Shaking his head, he jumped to his feet and pulled his pants on. The night air nipped at him, and he felt a surge of adrenaline as he strode outside, shirtless and barefooted. He was dimly aware of lights going on in the surrounding tents, and the personnel from the night shift beginning to gather in doorways of the hospital. Hawkeye was already several paces ahead of him, doing his best to obstruct Frank on his determined, triumphant march to Henry's tent. Hawkeye was talking – wasn't he always? – only this time he had a desperate, manic edge to his voice. Leave it to Hawkeye to be able to talk his way out of anything, but Trapper knew this wasn't going to cut it. Frank was on the war path, and Hawkeye's usual cutting verbal sparring had been reduced to thinly veiled pleading. Trapper steeled himself, and, catching up with them in a few strides, he grabbed Frank by the shoulder and spun him round. Frank's boots caught in the dirt and he stumbled.

"Get your hands off me, you pervert!" Burns snapped, his voice loud enough to make Hawkeye cringe.

But Trapper wouldn't be cowed. He pulled himself up to his full height as he approached, his fists clenched at his sides. "Lemme make one thing clear, Frank. You breathe a word of this to Henry, and I'll deck you so hard you hit the ground in 'Frisco. You got me?"

"You don't frighten me!" Frank did, in fact, sound very frightened.

But then, so did Hawkeye, as he moved to step between them. "C'mon – don't do this."

But Trapper was on a roll. The combination of terror over their exposure, and the frightened look on Hawkeye's face had awoken something primal and protective in him. A desperate, instinctive violence took him over, and he grabbed the Major's shirt front in both fists. "I mean it! I'll even mail your teeth back to Fort Wayne as a souvenir!"

"Trapper!" It was Hawkeye's terrified voice that stopped him; Hawkeye's hand on his arm, pulling him away. "Trapper, _quit it_ – you'll just make things worse!"

"You're not seriously defendin' this weasel, are ya?" Trapper stared at Hawkeye in disbelief.

"No, you moron – I'm defending _you_! You think I wanna see you up on charges for _assault_?!"

Distracted momentarily from his campaign to punch Frank's lights out, Trapper glanced at Hawkeye, who now planted himself firmly between him and Burns, pleading with Trapper to put his fists down. At last, Trapper relaxed, if for no other reason than the fact that he wasn't about to fight his way past Hawkeye for anything.

Burns seemed to view this as a personal victory, his apparent fear melting away as he realised that Trapper was not, in fact, about to hit him. "Smart move, McIntyre." He was actually gloating, even as he used Hawkeye as a human shield. "You should listen to your _boyfriend_ more often."

Wincing, Trapper stared at the ground, his earlier boldness failing him. A crowd was gathering in the compound, and Frank's voice was uncomfortably loud. Hawkeye saw him cringe, and pretended it didn't hurt. He turned away, focussing on Frank as more and more people gathered around them to see what the fuss was. "Frank," he said gently, extending a hand, approaching warily, "come on, you don't want to do this."

"Sure I do!" Frank swatted him away. "You think I owe you guys anything after everything you put _me_ through? All your jokes, your pranks, your comments about me in surgery! Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting so I could pin something on you?! I've been _dreaming_ about it for months, but I never thought I'd get something like this – something so _depraved_." He gestured to the pair of them, and Hawkeye pulled his robe a little tighter, self-conscious and shaking. "This is _perfect_!" Frank giggled, almost delirious in his sadistic glee at their downfall. "It's like Christmas! It's a gift! And nothing is gonna stop me! I'll see you two hang from the highest yardarm in Korea!"

Frank turned to walk away, and Hawkeye made one last, desperate grab for him. "Frank, _don't_!"

It all happened so fast. He had a grip on Frank's sleeve and then Frank wheeled around, screaming at him, calling him a string of obscenities. And then there was a burst of pain up his right leg and he hit the ground, skidding in the dirt as Frank pulled away. Even Frank was shocked, stopping and staring as Hawkeye cried out, cradling his leg. Trapper was at his side in an instant.

"I'm okay, I'm okay…" He winced as he moved, and, with Trapper's help, Hawkeye stood, his legs trembling, painfully aware that Trapper was holding him in the middle of the compound, in front of the growing crowds. Not that it mattered anymore. Not that _any_ of it mattered. He shot Frank one last look of loathing, shook his head and turned away, limping back to the Swamp.

Trapper watched him make his retreat, turned, and glared at Frank. Charges be damned – he'd be facing those anyway. Nobody hurt Hawkeye on his watch.

He was barely even aware of punching Frank in the kisser. The next thing he knew he was walking swiftly back to the Swamp as the crowd gasped and murmured. His knuckles were smarting something awful. Frank clearly wasn't out for the count – Trapper could hear him shrieking in amongst the chatter: "Did you see that? Did you see what he did?! And Pierce too, – he _grabbed_ me! Not just homosexuals, but _violent,_ too!"

He couldn't process it. Frank's ranting seemed to be coming at him from the end of a long tunnel. He ducked into the Swamp, and tried to just block it all out.

There, he found Hawkeye perched on the end of his cot, arms wrapped around himself, swaying slightly as if in shock. He was white as a sheet, grubby from landing in the dirt, the sleeve of his robe was ripped halfway off, and his legs scratched and dirty. Hawkeye wasn't built for fighting – one little brawl and he was a mess. Blood ran down his right shin, and Trapper shuddered.

"That leg looks nasty."

Hawkeye raised his head. "Huh? What?"

Trapper pointed a shaking finger in the direction of the wound. "He got you real good." His voice sounded detached and hollow, like it wasn't his own. He had to do something. If he didn't, he might well throw up.

There was nothing he could do to stop Frank now – nothing he could do to save them – but he could do this. Wordlessly, he bent to pick up Hawkeye's emergency medic's bag, slipped seamlessly into doctor-mode, and knelt on the floor between Hawkeye's feet. Outside, he could hear the commotion growing louder. Henry had arrived to try and disperse the crowd, with little success. Over the top of it all, Trapper could hear Frank screeching, using words that made Trapper's gut twist into knots. He pushed the noise to the back of his mind and focussed on Hawkeye's injuries.

His right leg bore a nasty, crescent-shaped gash where Frank had kicked him, the heavy, steel toe of his combat boot having split the skin. His left seemed in better shape, but some of the abrasions from where he'd skidded across the compound were also weeping blood a little. Trapper focused on the former. He poured some rubbing alcohol onto a wad of cotton. "This is gonna hurt." Hawkeye didn't respond, so Trapper carried on and pressed the cotton against his leg. Hawkeye winced, hissing in pain and trying to pull away. Trapper reached up and ran a comforting hand down his arm. "It's okay."

He bandaged the leg, padding it with gauze, and then cleansed the scrapes down his left hand side. Hawkeye at least seemed more focussed now, watching him in fascination, and the whimpering had subsided. "Feel better?" Trapper asked him.

Hawkeye stared at him, his face a mask of stunned, exhausted misery. "This is really it, isn't it?" His words perfectly echoed the question floating around in Trapper's skull. "I mean, he's not gonna back down. We're done for. Everything…"

He fell silent, his head dropping as he ran his hands through his hair, trying to grasp the enormity of what they were facing: their downfall. And at the hands of Frank Burns, no less.

Trapper watched him, kicking himself for not having done more. He should have played along with the excuse Hawkeye had thought up. He should have wrestled Frank to the ground right there and then and made him swear to keep his mouth shut. He should thumped him so hard he forgot what he'd seen when he'd walked in…

It was all moot now. The compound had quietened down, the crowds dispersed. Were they all back in their tents now, whispering about what had transpired only a few minutes ago? Were he and Hawkeye now gossip-fuel for the next week or two? Or longer?

He tried not to think about it. Trying desperately to focus on Hawkeye and not on the shame churning in his guts, Trapper got off his knees and sat on Hawkeye's cot beside him, gathering him in his arms. Hawkeye's skinny body curled into his embrace for comfort, the same way he did for intimacy. He held him like that for the longest time, stroking his hair. He didn't have to say anything. Any words of comfort would be shallow platitudes anyway – they both knew what was coming. All he could do was hold him.

The door opened, and he flinched, but couldn't bring himself to move. He heard Henry's voice before he saw him, and knew what kind of a sight they must have made, as the Colonel sighed despondently. "Oh, Jeez..."

Trapper shuddered, and Hawkeye lifted his head.

Henry stood over them, hands on his hips, a tired frown on his face. Hawkeye reluctantly pulled back from Trapper's comforting arms and gazed up at their commanding officer. Henry didn't look angry. He looked… disappointed. He addressed them both with a weary dejection, but with utter conviction: "It's true, isn't it?"

Hawkeye nodded, and Trapper stared at the floor.


	2. Fallout

**Chapter Notes:** _The aim of this chapter was to provide an accurate and varied cross-section of societal views towards homosexuality in the 1950s. We have tried, to the best of our ability, to tackle both individual and institutional homophobia, and present both in a realistic and nuanced fashion. Prejudice takes many forms, and often comes from unexpected sources, as we have tried to demonstrate. As a result, this story will contain content which some readers may find distressing._

 **Korea - September, 1951**

Trapper's hands were shaking. His stomach churned. Bile rose in his throat, and he felt as if he might throw up, were it not for the fact that he hadn't eaten a thing since the night before. It was well into the morning now, and he stared at the door of the Swamp, trying to will himself to stand up, cross the tiny space, and step through into the outside world.

Hawkeye had been waiting patiently for fifteen minutes as Trapper had stalled; searching for clean socks, his boots, his smokes, a fresh shirt. He'd shaved, brushed, flossed, preened and polished, and now he was at a loss for any further excuses.

"I can't do it, Hawk."

"I'll hold your hand, if it'll help." The joke was poorly timed, and the miserable look on his face did little to help it on its way.

"That ain't funny." He couldn't put it into words; couldn't explain why the judgemental glares and harsh words of their colleagues terrified him more than all the bombs, shells and mortars the enemy could fling at them. And there _would_ be glares, and harsh words, and maybe worse, of that he was certain.

Hawkeye crouched on the floor in front of him, grasping his hands and stroking them tenderly as he tried to find the words to calm his fears. "Hey, maybe it won't turn out so bad. Henry's a good egg – maybe he talked Frank out of it."

Trapper looked up at him a snorted. "This is Henry Blake we're talkin' about! A guy with all the persuasive powers of soggy army-issue toilet paper! An' _you_ think he talked Frank outta reportin' us?"

"Okay, maybe not! In which case, we have to go do it ourselves!"

Trapper stared into Hawkeye's earnest, hopeful eyes. What kind of ridiculous fairy story was he living in? – No pun intended. He looked away, glanced at the door, then back to Hawkeye again. "I can't."

"You've got to." Hawkeye's words were insistent, but his tone gentle. "Come on. Henry said he wanted us in his office, so we can sit there and play 'Frank's word against ours. If we don't show, the only word he'll get is Frank's. Is that what you want? You want us to be found guilty in our absence? 'Cause I sure as hell don't! If someone's going to condemn me then they can damned well look me in the eye when they do it! And then they can stand and listen when I tell 'em exactly what I think of it!"

Trapper's eyes watered a little. What he wouldn't give for Hawkeye's spirit sometimes! "That's fightin' talk…" His voice was a pained whisper.

Hawkeye grinned. "That's _us_. That's what we do. Us versus them, remember?" He squeezed Trapper's hand, then rose from the floor, and successfully coaxed Trapper slowly to his feet.

As they made their way slowly to the door, Trapper sighed and declared, "Why are you always able to twist my arm?"

"What can I say? I'm a man of irresistible persuasiveness."

Trapper snorted, but there was a bitter edge to his laughter. "That's what got us in this mess in the first place!"

"Thanks for reminding me…" Hawkeye's face fell, but he turned away as if to hide his hurt as he led Trapper out the door.

The compound was warm, but the atmosphere was not. Trapper could _feel_ eyes on him from every direction, so he kept his gaze fixed on the ground. Hawkeye strode along beside him, his head high, his hands in his pockets. There was even a bounce in his step, although Trapper couldn't begin to fathom how. Hawkeye was, he had long concluded, irrepressible. He walked too casually, and too close, and Trapper moved away a little when he felt Hawkeye's elbow graze his own.

The hospital was a welcome sanctuary. Radar was absent from his desk, and so they made their way through to Henry's office without announcement. Hawkeye pushed the door open, while Trapper hung back a short distance behind. For the first time, the sight of Henry Blake sat behind his desk reminded Trapper not of a slightly befuddled middle-management administrator, but of the disillusioned long-suffering principal at his school: a glum, bespectacled priest who kept wondering why a bright, popular student like young Johnathan McIntyre insisted on ruining his school record by getting into fights.

And Frank, perched on the chair by the window, reminded him of a vulture, eagerly anticipating the opportunity to start pecking at the carcass of a rival's reputation. His nose wrinkled in distaste. "Nice of you two to finally show up."

Trapper shuddered under Frank's gaze, and gently pulled the door closed behind him.

Henry, as if desperate for something to do, fumbled with the papers on his desk. "Um… I hope you don't mind, boys, but we kinda… started without ya. Have a seat." He gestured to a chair with his pen. "Or rather… uh… two seats… there being… uh…" He gestured to the two of them, and his pen escaped his fingers and skittered across the desk, landing on the floor and rolling off somewhere, never to be seen again.

"I figured, Henry. I'm not about to sit on Trapper's knee, despite what Frank would probably have you believe."

Henry laughed a little too loudly and tried to pretend this wasn't awkward. Trapper scowled at the floor. Frank snorted.

"Okey-dokey," Henry declared with his usual degree of formality as the pair of them seated themselves opposite his desk. "Um… so, I-I took Frank's statement before you got here."

Hawkeye grimaced. "I'm sure it's a wonderfully elaborate piece of creative fiction, packed with scandal and hyperbole, sure to be a best-seller."

"And he was just laying down his demands with regards to how to proceed from here." Henry's tone, and the way his eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, were a fair indication that Frank's demands were already starting to get on Henry's nerves.

"Oh, it's not what _I_ demand!" Frank announced stiffly, slipping from his perch to stand to attention. "US Army disciplinary procedure states that Pierce and McIntyre should be formally charged under Article 125 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, detained, and court martialled with immediate effect. I read all the relevant paragraphs this morning before reveille."

Hawkeye smiled a little too broadly. " _Very_ _good_ , Frank. Did you remember all that by yourself, or did you get Hot Lips to hold up flash cards?"

"You'll be wisecracking behind bars after this report goes through!" Frank rapped a fingernail onto Henry's desk for emphasis. "This isn't like that over-decorated powder-puff Weston – I'm making _sure_ the General hears about this! I've told the Colonel – he has _no choice_ but to file my report! You're under _his_ command, and you're _his_ responsibility!" His voice rising to an angry shout, he shot Henry a pointed look, which the Colonel squirmed under.

Clearing his throat, Henry tried, and failed, to retain some semblance of order. "Frank's also requested that… uh…" Here, he read from Frank's statement, squinting at his own handwriting. "'Captains Pierce and McIntyre be separated–'"

"–'And isolated immediately!' That's right!"

"Right where we reach an impasse, because we don't have enough tents for that!" Henry slammed the report onto his desk with a weary sigh.

"Well, _I'm_ not sharing with one of those degenerates!"

Hawkeye shrugged. "That's fine, Frank. Go sleep in the VIP tent. Leave us to degenerate in peace."

Frank turned puce. "Would you listen to that?! Colonel, you can't leave them _alone_ together! They'll corrupt everyone around them! The entire camp will become a den of debauchery, perversion and sin!"

"Has he _seen_ this camp lately?" Hawkeye directed his question at Trapper, who seemed to be silently inspecting his fingernails for grit.

"Frank!" Henry rubbed at his forehead in exasperation. "We have _one_ free tent in this camp. Either _you_ go sleep in it, or Pierce or McIntyre will! I can't separate all three of you!"

"But you can't leave them _alone_ \- they're _criminals_!"

"Not until they've had a fair trial they're not!"

"But… Article 125–"

Hawkeye aimed a kick at Henry's desk. "Oh, shove Article 125 up your ass, Frank!"

Frank's nostrils flared. "Don't you _dare_ direct that kind of filthy talk at me!"

"Fine. I'll shove it up _my_ ass. Then I can say I've been screwed by Harry Truman – which wouldn't be far from the truth."

This outburst had the desired effect: Frank made an aggravated spluttering noise and headed for the door. "I don't have to listen to this! I've made my report – _and_ I'll be noting _all_ of this down in an appendix!"

"You'll find one in the scraps bucket next to the tonsils." As Frank stormed out, Hawkeye propped his feet up on the desk.

Henry stared at him. "Pierce, you know I don't usually like to cramp your style, but your smart mouth sure isn't doin' you any favours right now!"

"It got rid of him, didn't it?"

Henry conceded on that and put Frank's report aside. "Alright. Let's get down to brass tacks here. I ain't gonna lie to you – Frank's right. This isn't like Weston; this is _my unit_ , and what does on here _is_ my responsibility… _You_ are my responsibility."

"Well, I'm glad I'm _somebody's_ – I'd hate to be responsible for me." Hawkeye gave a slightly elaborate shrug, and cast another glance at the silent Trapper, hoping to coax some life out of him.

Frowning, Henry flicked through the papers on his desk again. "I can't bend the rules for you here, and I can't cover this one up. However, I _can_ make this less damaging, but _only_ if you're honest with me."

"We were!"

Hawkeye's head whipped round. This was the first time Trapper had spoken since they had walked into the office. Even now, he sat with his head bowed, his fingers twisting anxiously into tight, uncomfortable knots.

"We came clean last night, Henry! Why ya gotta give us the third degree?" Trapper fidgeted awkwardly and stared at his boots again.

"I need to know," Henry explained sternly, "what did Frank… uh, walk in on last night? This report of his is all… well, you read it."

Henry passed the report over, and Hawkeye scanned through it. "'Uncompromising dare-I-say _unpatriotic_ position? Bed-sharing in a state unnatural and unbecoming of an American, let alone an officer?' Who _talks_ like this?"

"Frank," Trapper replied, going back to torturing his fingers by chewing on a hangnail.

"Someone at J-CORP is gonna have to decipher this garbage." Henry retrieved the offending report and gave it a dismissive backhand. "So you tell me straight: Does Burns have _any grounds_ for a case here? Don't toss innuendos at me, and don't get all flustered like a couple'a schoolgirls, just tell me: What were you _doing_?"

"Nothing!" Hawkeye's protest was genuinely indignant, and even took Trapper by surprise. "We were… we were _sleeping_!"

"In the same cot?"

"We've all bed-shared in this unit, Henry. You know that."

"Right…" Henry shot him a dubious look. "Please tell me you kept your clothes on while you were… ahem… 'bed-sharing'."

Now it was Hawkeye's turn to look nervous. He laughed a little. "Do you keep _yours_ on when you… ahem… bed-share?"

"Oh, jeez…" Henry nursed his aching head again, heaved himself up from his desk and took a stroll to the liquor cabinet.

"But we had a blanket! There was _no way_ he could have seen anything! And we weren't _doing_ anything!" Even as he said it, he knew the defence was as flimsy as the army issue blanket that had preserved their dignity. "For all he knew, we were just keeping warm!"

"In _September_?"

"Right!"

"And with no clothes on?"

Frustrated, Hawkeye kicked his heels up onto the desk and slumped miserably in his seat. "What the hell was Frank doing back at that time in the morning anyway!" he demanded as Henry rose from his desk and poured three large Scotches.

Henry gave an elaborate shrug that started around his knees, travelled all the way up and made the fishing flies in his hat jingle. "Beats me! He was on leave with Major Houlihan! For all I know, they had a lover's tiff and he stormed off and flew back to Korea hiding in the back of a B-19 bomber! You know Frank."

Hawkeye snorted and slammed his fist down on the desk. "Perfect. Frank strikes out and we get outed."

"Maybe it's not that bad – well, I mean… as bad as it could be." Henry passed Hawkeye a drink, placed a second on the desk in front of Trapper, and took a sip of his own. "Look, you got caught with your pants down, but without any evidence of…" He gestured, cleared his throat nervously, and turned slightly pink. "I mean, just going off what you've told me here, there's a fair chance they'll spare you a prison sentence."

Trapper blanched, and looked up from the hand he was hiding behind. "Prison?"

Hawkeye nodded mutely. He hadn't expected prison to enter into the equation at all. "Right… I mean, great."

"But," Henry continued, "you're probably looking at an undesirable discharge."

"You mean dishonourable?"

"Uh… no. It's sorta… one step in the direction of 'honourable' but still not altogether honourable." Henry gestured with his glass.

Another nod. "That's… not so bad."

"It ain't good." Trapper addressed the floorboards, barely looking up as Henry nudged a drink across the desk in his direction.

"No, McIntyre, it's not. You'll lose your V.A. benefits, your pension, and it'll go on you permanent records. I won't lie to you, boys – it won't do you any favours."

Laughing bitterly, Hawkeye stared into the warm, amber liquid as he swirled it in the bottom of his glass. "Another shining example of American democracy. They send you to war you don't want to go to, then send you back again and punish you when they find out they never even wanted the likes of you in the first place! Maybe I should've made a pass at the doctor at my draft board and saved us all a lot of trouble."

Hawkeye downed his drink in one gulp, but Trapper didn't touch his. Now, as the room fell silent, he looked up, his eyes red and glistening. He swallowed, wetted his lips, and locked Henry with a desperate, imploring gaze. "Henry? I got two kids. My wife…"

Henry practically winced. "I know. That's why you gotta get your story straight before any of this hits the fan - because there's gonna be a fallout from this one!"

Trapper nodded, wiping his eyes. "Right."

Hawkeye couldn't bear to see him cry. Something unpleasant clawed at his gut, and he turned away, staring at the floor. Suddenly, all his anger was forgotten, his wisecracking abandoned. "I'm sorry."

Trapper turned and glanced at him, shooting him a weak, tearful smile. The words 'it's okay, Hawk' and 'it ain't your fault' flickered across his mind. They never made it as far as his mouth. Instead, he turned away again, picked up his glass, and took a much-needed belt of whiskey.

* * *

If living in a warzone had felt hostile before, it was about to get a whole lot worse.

For the rest of the day, they hid. Neither one of them could face the outside world, and so, they squirreled themselves away from the rest of civilisation. Frank came in and gathered up his things, and then they were left alone. Normally, this would have been the cue for Hawkeye to adhere himself to Trapper, or crawl into his bed, but they stuck to their separate cots.

By the second day, it occurred to them that the need for food might become a problem. Hawkeye declared that he had a solution, and emptied his footlocker onto Frank's abandoned cot. Inside, there were three Hershey's bars and a half-eaten packet of liquorice. "I'll admit it: I thought there was more in there."

On the third day, Trapper dreamt about eating a cheese shop, and woke up to find himself gnawing on one of Hawkeye's old socks. That, Hawkeye decided, was possibly a sign he'd gone too long without food.

"I'll go grab you something from the mess tent."

Trapper reacted as though he'd actually said 'I'll go grab you a takeout from North Korea' and insisted he wasn't hungry anyway.

"It'll be fine! I swear to you! Look, I'll prove it…"

It turned out his words sounded a lot braver than he felt. Venturing outside was daunting, but he refused to let fear get the better of him. He kept his head high, and his eyes front, barely even seeing the people around him, and strolled casually through the compound, into the mess tent. He was lucky – the mess tent was almost empty. Within minutes, he had acquired a cup of coffee and a plate of… something – possibly meatloaf, although without any meat and not a lot of loaf – before returning to the Swamp.

Their tent was unpleasantly stuffy, partly because they had kept the canvas sides lowered in spite of the heat, and partly because neither one of them had spent much time outside of it in the past few days. Hawkeye laid his trophies down on a crate beside his tent-mate and stood back triumphantly. "See? I didn't get beaten up or anything! It's absolutely fine out there; you'll be fine; we'll be fine."

Trapper scowled at him. "If I hear you use the word 'fine' one more time, I'm gonna beat you to death with the dictionary."

"I'm just trying to reassure your paranoid little noggin!" Hawkeye gave a smile that was as broad as it was forced, and tapped Trapper playfully on the skull.

Trapper pushed his hand away. "Yeah, well you can shove off with your reassurances, an' take your meatloaf with you. I'd rather eat your socks."

But, despite his protestations, Hawkeye was disinclined to leave the tent for the rest of the day, something which did not go unnoticed by Trapper. By the time dinner came around, Trapper declined his invitation, making excuses about not wanting salmonella to interfere with his court martial. Hawkeye took his joking to mean everything was OK. "I'm not hungry, either," he offered weakly. He crept closer, taking Trapper's hand in his own. Trapper pulled away.

On the fourth day, Trapper was awoken before sunrise by a sharp, stabbing pain in his stomach. Groaning, he crawled out of bed, clutching his belly. Hawkeye was still sleeping, and Trapper crept over to his cot, gently shaking him awake.

Hawkeye made a disgruntled sound and slapped at him. "Go 'way."

"Don't be like that. I'm starvin' here! I think my guts are startin' to digest themselves."

Hawkeye opened one eye and glared at him. "You asking me out on a breakfast date? After you turned me down for dinner last night?"

Trapper winced. "Come on, Hawk. We can't go on like this. If we go now we can get in an' get gone 'fore anyone else shows up. Not to mention before the mess tent gets so hot it starts to incubate its own germ cultures in the powdered milk."

"But the botulism is my only source of protein!" His voice was sleepy and his limbs heavy, but he allowed himself to be dragged out of bed, regardless.

Unfortunately, the rest of the camp had the same idea, and the mess tent was packed. Trapper tensed as they crossed the compound. He could see the crowds through the mosquito netting, and his pace slowed to a crawl as they drew closer. Soon, he was sweating, digging his heels in, hanging back. By the time Hawkeye reached the door, he'd ground to a halt altogether. "Hawk, I can't do this. Let's just go back."

"Don't be such a lug!" Hawkeye grabbed his arm, and opened the door. A hush descended upon the entire tent. "We're the same people we were last week, you know!" This, he addressed to the tent at large, which overwhelmingly ignored him.

Finding themselves greeted with a prickly, unwelcoming silence, and they ventured forth into the hostile but familiar territory. Trapper shuddered. "Everybody's starin' at us."

"No, they're not." Hawkeye scanned the crowd. Sure, enough a few heads had turned. Some people were glaring, others were almost theatrically engrossed in their breakfast. What was going through each individual's mind, he couldn't fathom, but, unlike Trapper, he didn't care too much. He prodded Trapper in the ribs. "You don't have to look at the floor."

Trapper hadn't even realised.

There was a scatter of whispered comments across the tent as they took their place in the line. Much of the words were far too quiet for Trapper to make out, but the one that was spat at them from the back of the tent was unmistakeable: " _Homos_."

You wouldn't recognise Hawkeye flinching unless you knew him inside out, but Trapper did. It was the way his spine snapped a little bit straighter and the hairs on the back of his neck curled upwards, as if trying to escape. Aside from this, he didn't move.

They retrieved their serving of porridge from Igor – which he helpfully splashed mainly into their trays, and a little down their shirts as well – and looked around for an empty table, which were conspicuous by their absence. Trapper hesitated, and the nurse behind him pushed them forward. "Get a move on! The rest of us want to eat!"

Hawkeye, meanwhile was already making his way through the tables, venturing further into the crowds. Trapper watched the ripple of glances he drew, and winced on his behalf. At last, he reached his intended destination. The table was unoccupied but for a single breakfaster: Radar.

"Is it OK if we sit here?" Hawkeye's request wasn't particularly loud, but in the quiet of the tent, there wasn't a single person who wouldn't have heard. Radar shrugged, and Hawkeye took that for a yes. He set his tray down and nodded to Trapper. "Trap, c'mon."

Trapper walked across the tent to join him. Every footstep seemed to take an age. Everybody looked at him. Staring. Whispering. All thinking the same thing. Well, he knew rationally that they weren't, but he suspected not a single person was about to speak up in their defence, and he wouldn't ask them to.

Trapper had barely sat down when a pair of the enlisted men rose from the table in the far corner. His heart started pounding. This was no casual stroll out of the breakfast tent: they had abandoned their trays at the table, their food half eaten, and, with an instinct he was wearily beginning to recognise as fight or flight, Trapper found himself sizing them up. By the time he had concluded that he could probably take them if necessary, they were right opposite him, looming over Radar.

The smaller of the pair leaned on the table beside the motionless Radar, glowering at them across the table. "Well, what have we here?"

Hawkeye opened his mouth and Trapper stamped on his foot; something he immediately found himself regretting, because it only seemed to anger him further. Hawkeye shot him a furious look, clearly gearing up for one of his rants. Trapper wasn't sure if he could face that. Not now – not with two big guys squaring up to them.

"Hey, Radar," the taller of the two said. "Are these fairies bothering you?"

Trapper prayed for Hawkeye to keep his mouth shut, but Hawkeye was on a roll. He let out a mock-hysterical squeal of a laugh. "Personally," he drawled, grimacing, "I always saw myself as more of a mischievous imp."

"Hawk…"

"What do you _want_ , fella? I'm just trying to enjoy my caffeinated grit in peace!"

The big fellow also leant down towards the table, casting a shadow over them and damned near blocking out the sun. "I wanna know, what do a couple of queers like you think you're doin', hangin' around a nice kid like O'Reilly?"

Hawkeye stared. His jaw twitched, and Trapper knew he was about to go off, and there was nothing he could do or say to stop him.

"Not much." Hawkeye's voice was smooth as silk, and his expression one of wide-eyed innocence. "I'm just sitting here, eating my queer breakfast. Then, later on, I'll be washing my queer hair, doing my queer laundry, sitting around my queer tent being all queer."

Then he fell silent, not so much because of the quiet threat of violence hanging over his head, but because, suddenly, he had spotted Radar squirming in his seat.

"Is something the matter?" Hawkeye's voice was icy.

Radar fidgeted some more, poked at his hash, and stared resolutely at the table. "Nothin', guys, but look, no offence but if you wouldn't mind I'd just like to eat in peace I gotta lot to do today." The words were a jumbled mess, but Hawkeye heard them well enough, and so did everyone else.

"You heard him! Get up!" Before he could even think of getting to his feet, one of the guys grabbed Hawkeye by the arm, damned near wrenching it out of the socket.

"Hey!" Trapper's protest was lost in the kerfuffle, as he, too, was dragged to his feet. He shrugged the offending hands off, turned, and, without thinking, landed a punch clean across the guy's nose.

His assailant staggered back, and Trapper felt a surge of adrenaline, but a second later, Hawkeye yelped in pain as his arm was pulled up behind his back. Trapper flew to his aid on instinct, but before he could reach him, the soldier attacking him was struck by a flying size 12, baby-pink, three-inch heeled pump. Hawkeye was released, but rather than bolt, he froze like a rabbit in headlights. Both their attackers were getting their bearings again – they had to get out, and fast. Trapper grabbed Hawkeye around the waist, pulling him away. A moment later, a second, identical shoe hit the attacker across the back of the head.

The pair turned and stared, and Hawkeye and Trapper stared, too: Klinger was standing barefoot on one of the tables, his hat askew. He gestured to Trapper frantically with lace-gloved hands: "Don't just stand there – I'm all outta pumps! Go, _go_!"

"Thanks, Klinger!"

Bundling Hawkeye out of the door, Trapper fled, dragging him back to the Swamp, as chaos descended upon the mess tent.

* * *

"Well, I couldn't exactly just let 'em pummel ya, could I?" Klinger protested later when he stopped by the Swamp.

Hawkeye sat back in his chair and propped his boots up on Frank's empty bunk. "You're our knight in shining taffeta. We appreciate it."

On the other side of the Swamp, Trapper scowled. "I could'a taken 'em."

"My shoulder begs to differ. I say again, Klinger – you're a hero!"

"Hey, that was _our_ fight! I don't want my buddies takin' a beatin' for me! Klinger, you keep your beak outta this in future – we ain't worth it."

Even Hawkeye was stunned by that, but Klinger shook his head, and stood to attention, pulling himself up to his full height. " _Nonsense_ , Sir! Those were a brand new pair of $13.99 department store pumps, fresh out of the box, and it was a _privilege_ to sacrifice them, an' I'd do it again in a heartbeat!"

Trapper snorted, dropping onto his cot. "To hell with your _pumps_ , Klinger! I'm talkin' about those meatheads goin' after _you_ because you decided to defend a couple'a…" He gestured angrily, but words failed him. "The phrase 'damned by association' ringin' any bells? Hell, you shouldn't even be in here."

Substituting bluster and bravado for sincerity, Klinger rolled his eyes at Trapper. "Hey, in case you haven't noticed, I've been turning up to breakfast in tea dresses for the past nine months! I've had a lot of things spat at me in my time here - things that can open a man's eyes - so don't go thinking I don't know how to handle myself! Besides – just look at me! I'm so over the top, I'm _beyond_ suspicion."

"Maybe that was our mistake," Hawkeye commented to Trapper. "We're just too damned _butch_."

Another derisive snort from the corner. How could Hawkeye be making jokes at a time like this? Didn't he realise how serious this was? Without responding, Trapper tried – with limited success – to focus on the letter he was attempting to write to his wife. ' _Dear Louise, Turns out I'll be home earlier than I thought…_ '

His concentration was shattered even more when the Swamp door creaked open.

Hawkeye's voice made the announcement before Trapper could even ask the question: " _Radar_!" A shiver ran up Trapper's spine, but Hawkeye continued to exclaim with a breezy, conversational tone: "Nice of you to stop by! Are you here of your own free will, or did a talking cricket twist your arm with promises that one day you'll be a real boy?"

"Knock it off – this isn't a social call." Radar stared at the floor and fumbled with a piece of paper. At last, Trapper glanced up from his letter. Hawkeye met his gaze over the top of his notepad, and he did not look happy. Paper unfolded, Radar proceeded to read aloud in an official, but almost petulant tone. "By official order of Lt. Col. Henry Blake, Commanding Officer of the US Army 4077th MASH, Captains Pierce and McIntyre are to be confined to quarters indefinitely, in the interests of their own safety, until such time as a court martial can be convened, or they are removed to American soil."

Klinger whistled. "Nice!"

"Additionally," Radar went on, "said quarters are off limits to all other personnel, with the exception of those on medical or military business."

Sighing, Klinger picked up his purse. "I do believe the army is showing me the door."

Trapper registered his words and his sombre tone somewhere through his depressive haze, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Instead, he offered up a casual "See ya, Klinger," and returned to his letter. Through the corner of his eye, he watched Hawkeye move to the door to bid Klinger farewell and express, once again, his heartfelt gratitude. Why couldn't he stand and join him? They could get hauled out to Seoul for a court martial any day now. This may be his only chance to say goodbye to one of the few friends he still had in this rotten place?

But whatever force was responsible for his sudden paralysis kept him firmly adhered to his bed, and his eyes firmly on his letter. ' _Dear Louise, You'll be thrilled to know I found a convenient way out of the army_ …'

"You know, doc…" Klinger hesitated in the doorway. "Not so long ago I would'a been jealous of you guys goin' home – no matter what the circumstances."

Hawkeye managed a tight smile and shook his head. "I really wouldn't, Klinger. And before you run off to find yourself a handsome chopper pilot–"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Klinger chuckled a little. "Truth is, Dr. Freedman offered me a way out a few months back. All I had to do was sign some papers, but… let's just say I didn't much like the knock-on effects, if you catch my drift? So no, I don't envy you." He held out a hand. "You take care of yourselves, both of ya."

Hawkeye shook the proffered hand and smiled. "You too. And thank you."

Grinning, Klinger saluted. "It's been a pleasure, Sir."

And, for once in his life, Hawkeye saluted back.

The door crashed closed behind Klinger's skirts, and Hawkeye turned to where Radar was still standing in the space by the stove, staring at the floor. As Trapper watched over the top of his notepad, he saw Hawkeye's smile vanish. Hurt flickered across his face, and he blinked a few times before addressing the diminutive clerk. "Any chance I could have a word with you? If it's not too much trouble."

"Uh… you heard the Colonel's orders, Sir. You're off limits to all personnel. That includes me too – me bein' a person an' all." Radar addressed the floorboards with a tone of wavering authority.

"Except for official business! That's official business in your hand right now, officially signed in Henry Blake's favourite crayon!"

"But I'm all done now, Sir."

Hawkeye's voice slipped up a notch. "Radar! Since when was I a 'Sir' to you? Did somebody slip a knighthood into my service record behind my back?"

"No…"

"So, knock it off!" Hawkeye's voice was loud, and Trapper could see Radar flinch. But he could also see that Hawkeye's ranting hid the shaking in his voice and the look of hurt on his face. He composed himself – with some difficulty. "Would you care to sit down?"

"Oh, I'd rather stand, Sir."

Hawkeye recoiled at the title as if he'd been punched, but hid the reaction with a roll of his eyes and a despairing look at Trapper. "Fine. _I'll_ sit. Maybe you'll look me in the eye if I come down to your level." He perched himself on his cot, hands clasped in front of him.

Trapper saw Radar's gaze flicker upwards for a moment – just long enough to glare at Hawkeye. It was the kind of joke that would have been little more than a playful jibe at one point, but suddenly there was an edge of something in Hawkeye's words, and a distinct unease in Radar's disposition. Radar now lowered himself into a chair, as if in protest.

Trapper shuddered and went back to his letter. ' _Dear Louise, I've screwed everything up. I fucked my bunkie and ruined my life and his and now all our friends think we're the scum of the earth. Please can I come home?'_

Hawkeye pulled up a chair. "What the hell happened in there, huh?"

"Uh… I don't know what you're talking about, Sir."

"I'm talking about you sitting there in the mess tent and not saying a word while me and Trapper nearly got our asses kicked! I'm talking about you treating us like lepers when we've done _nothing_ to you! One little word from you, and they'd have backed off! I didn't have you pegged as a silent bystander!"

Trapper frowned and looked up from his letter. "Hawk? Lay off the kid, would you?"

"I'm not a kid!"

"See? He's not a kid! He's old enough to have an adult conversation, which is exactly what we're doing! Why don't you make yourself useful and fix him a drink?"

Trapper gave up on his letter and tossed his pad and pen aside, standing and approaching the still.

"I'm fine, really, Cap'n McIntyre, Sir. I really don't want a drink."

Trapper also shuddered at the formality, but declined to comment. "He doesn't want a drink…"

" _Fine_! Then fix _me_ a drink!"

Trapper sighed and picked up a Martini glass.

As Trapper played bartender, Hawkeye leaned closer to Radar, trying to keep calm. He only half succeeded. "What gives, huh? I never expected this kind of attitude from you. When Frank was giving Henry grief over George Weston, you were on _our_ side! I thought you were better than this!"

Trapper drained the still, and came up with half a glass of three-day-old gin. "Sorry, Hawk. We're all out."

"Refill it then!"

Trapper set about filling the still – silently. He'd never seen Hawkeye like this before. He'd grown used to his ranting and his righteous indignation, but never before had he seen it directed at someone close to them.

Hawkeye turned his attention back to Radar. "Come on, Radar. I thought we were friends!"

Radar shuffled his feet. "So did I, Sir."

Hawkeye looked like he'd been slapped in the face. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Radar looked up, just long enough to fix Hawkeye with a scowl of a look that Hawkeye had never seen on his face ever before. "Well, Sir, the way I see it is that friends don't lie to one another, an' what with you keepin' secrets an' everything, I just don't feel all that friendly t'wards you anymore." He glanced towards Trapper. "No offence, Sirs."

Hawkeye looked over to him as well, expecting some backup. When none was forthcoming, he forged on alone: "Keeping secrets?! In case you haven't noticed, this being out in the open hasn't exactly won us any popularity contests! So, forgive me if I didn't choose to share _everything_ with you, but even a man under house arrest has a right to remain silent!"

"Well, I think I had a right to know!" For the first time, Radar raised his voice, and Hawkeye was actually stunned into silence. Trapper's hands shook, glass rattling between his fingers. "I spent a lot of time 'round here, an' we were real close an' everything! I thought you were just horsin' around, you know – the way you're always… touchin' everybody an'… callin' yourself my Aunt Hawkeye! I figured you were kidding! I took my clothes off in front'a you and everything!"

Radar's outburst somehow seemed to calm Hawkeye's temper – as if being met halfway came as a relief. He actually laughed. "Radar, I'm a _doctor_. _Everyone's_ taken their clothes off in front of me. Did I ever say anything? Do anything?"

Hawkeye's jovial manner may have returned, but Radar's had not. Shrugging, Radar glanced towards the door. "Well, it just gives me the willies is all."

Hawkeye laughed again, louder this time. He slapped his knee and rocked back in his seat. Trapper stared at him, perplexed. "Okay, okay…" Hawkeye said at last. "Great disguise, Frank. Now what did you do with Radar?"

"That's not funny."

Hawkeye's expression darkened. "No, what's funny is that you get uncomfortable undressing in front of your _teddy_ _bear_ – and now you've decided it had something to do with _me_!"

Abandoning the still, Trapper turned to intervene. "Alright, Hawk. Enough! You're getting' personal!"

Rising to his feet, Hawkeye glared at him, his fury finding a new target. "I am not! I'm defending my character and my professional integrity!"

"What the hell for?! Radar ain't the one filin' the report on us!"

"Well, he sure as hell isn't helping us out!"

"It _ain't his job_ to help us out! No more than it was _Klinger's_. So just _drop it_!"

Hawkeye scowled, his eyes glistening. "Fine." There was a moment's pause, and then he turned to Radar and added: "But just for the record, I'd just like to make it clear, at _no point_ did I ever have my eye on you! Not ever! And no matter what your opinion of it might be, I'm entitled to a personal life!"

"Ha! No kiddin'!" Now it was Radar's turn to rise to his feet, his eyes wide behind his grubby spectacles. "You got more of a personal life than the rest of the whole camp put together!"

"So what? You're offended by my popularity now?"

"So, some guys can't even get one date! Some guys get _scared_ talkin' to girls an' stuff, an' then there's you, seein' a different girl every week an' then droppin' 'em! An' then to top it all off, in spite of havin' all those nurses, it turns out you an' Cap'n McIntyre are…"

Radar trailed off. Trapper was grateful. Hawkeye, less so. "We're _what_ , Radar?"

Trapper shuddered. "C'mon, Hawk. This ain't worth it."

"No! I want to hear him say it! If he's gonna _hate_ us for it, he should at least be able to say the words!" There was nothing but silence. " _Fucking_!? Is that what you're trying to spit out?"

Trapper cringed. "Jeez, Hawk…"

"I don't hate anybody." Radar addressed this comment to the floor. "I'm not like Major Burns! I remember that George Weston guy, and he was nice! Only _he_ didn't make dirty jokes all the time, an' he didn't go around throwing himself at everything that moves!"

"Is _that_ what you think I do?!"

"I just think… it's kinda seedy is all. An' maybe you've got some kinda problem or something. I wouldn't know – I'm not a doctor. But… it makes me uncomfortable bein' around you."

Hawkeye's lip trembled. " _Fine_. But just so you know, I am _not_ some kind of sex-crazed maniac, despite your assumptions! And furthermore, my interest in any one gender does _not_ prohibit me from having a healthy, enjoyable encounter with any other!"

"That's not what Nurse Mitchell thinks, Sir."

Suddenly, Hawkeye fell silent. His face fell, and he squirmed a little. Trapper glanced over at him, an unpleasant surge of jealousy rising in his gut like bile. He swallowed it.

"What did she say?" Hawkeye's voice cracked.

Silence.

"What did Mitchell _say_ , Radar?!" It was Trapper who spoke this time.

Radar hesitated for a moment, glancing nervously at Hawkeye. "She said uh… she said that… if she'd known you were a fag, she never would'a gone out with you."

Hawkeye was speechless. Trapper wasn't. Shuddering, he squared up. "I hear ya say that word again, an' I'll get on my knees an' punch you right in the nose!"

Looking genuinely confused, Radar glanced about himself. "I'm just tellin' ya what she said like you told me to!"

"Trapper, come on…" Hawkeye laid a hand on his arm. Now it was _his_ turn to play peacekeeper. Maybe they should have a blue hat to pass around…

Trapper flinched at his touch, hyper-aware of even the slightest hint of intimacy in front of anyone else. Rather than calming him, it just threw gasoline on the fire. He saw Radar's eyes dart over to where Hawkeye's hand was wrapped around his wrist – it was the closest the kid had got to looking at him all day. He wrenched his arm free from Hawkeye's grip. "Get outta here," he snapped at Radar, too wound up to even contemplate salvaging this conversation. Or anything else for that matter.

"Huh?"

"You just said you didn't wanna be around us – so get out! Go on – _scram_!"

"No! Radar, wait!"

Radar didn't wait. Radar bolted. Trapper couldn't bring himself to watch the Swamp door close behind him.

"What the hell was that?!" Hawkeye stared at him, wide eyed and in shock.

"I ain't standin' by an' lettin' anybody call you that!"

"He doesn't mean it! He doesn't even know what he's saying! _Mitchell_ was the one who… _Christ_ , Trapper – he's just a _kid_! He's confused, he's scared! Goddamn it, I was making _progress_!"

" _Progress_? You weren't makin' progress – you were makin' 'im quake in his little boots!"

"I wasn't the one threatening to _punch_ him!"

Ashamed, Trapper sighed, stepping close and lowering his voice. "Face it, Hawk. There ain't no progress to be made here! These people've made up their minds about us already. I say, to hell with the lot of 'em!"

"But 'these people' are our friends! This is Radar we're talking about! _Radar_!" Hawkeye's face cracked, and the tears he hadn't dare shed in front of Radar suddenly crept to the surface. "I can't believe this."

"I know." His anger fading, Trapper took Hawkeye in his arms for the first time since they'd got caught. It felt good to hold him – too good – and Trapper felt suddenly guilty for finding pleasure in something so innocent. Hawkeye's hair brushed against his cheek as he nestled his head into his shoulder the way he always did. "It's like you said, back when you first told me – sometimes people think different when it's a stranger. Then when it's one'a their buddies they just…" He gave a weak, vague gesture in Radar's direction. "Just put it all behind ya, Hawk. In a few days' time we're gonna go home, an' we're never seein' a single one of these people ever again."

"I just… I don't understand. He's a good kid!"

Hawkeye tapered off, and Trapper didn't say anything else. What was the use? The damage was almost unfathomable. He knew Radar's awkwardness was little more than a taster of what was to come. Trapper's words of comfort came with a bitter pill concealed within: they _would_ be going home, and once that happened, it was unlikely they would ever see one another again either. They had destroyed their careers and their friendships for the sake of what – a hasty fumble under an itchy khaki blanket? There was nothing to show for this relationship save for the damning verdict of the court martial that loomed on the horizon. What comfort could he offer in the face of that?

Suddenly, this embrace felt like a lie.

Trapper pushed Hawkeye away gently. Wordlessly, he turned away to finish sealing the still, more for something to do than any practical purpose, leaving Hawkeye standing in the middle of the Swamp, tear streaked and trembling.

Hawkeye dried his eyes. The glass rattled and the rubber seals squeaked, and the liquid began to drip. Suddenly, the sound was unbearable, and Hawkeye flinched. "Trapper, just leave it."

"I'm almost done." Trapper didn't turn around.

Hawkeye's hands shook as he wiped his eyes. What was the point? What was the point in any of it? Fixing the still, fixing their friendships… it was all moot. In a few days, it was all be over. _Everything_ would be over. More than anything, he just wanted Trapper to hold him – to hold him right up until the army tore them apart, and then tore their lives apart as an encore – but he didn't. He didn't move from the still. There was another squeak, another rattle of glass on glass...

"Goddamn it, Trapper, would you just _leave the damned thing alone_?"

His outburst took Trapper by surprise. He spun around, just in time to see Hawkeye stride over to the still and land a violent kick to the underside of the table. The whole contraption rose a clear foot into the air. Several parts dropped out of their settings and smashed. A second later, as if in slow motion, momentum took hold, and the table tipped backwards. It fell, taking with it not just the still, but ten foot of canvas and the mosquito netting that hung behind it. Trapper stared through the resulting hole into the compound, and several personnel stared back, too, as the table landed with a crash, scattering the broken remains of the still across the Korean mud.

 **Footnote:** _Once again, I find myself feeling a little nervous posting this chapter. The creative choices that were made here were not easy, and I am anticipating some varied reactions from readers. If anybody has any questions or is curious as to why we ultimately chose to go in the direction we did, please feel free to post in the reviews section and we will be happy to expand upon our thinking process._


	3. The Last Day (by Captaintransvestite)

**Author's note:** _This chapter is largely the work of my best friend, who goes by the handle 'Captaintransvestite' on Tumblr. Some original content by me._

* * *

 **04:34 – Thursday September 27** **th** **1951**

The sun had yet to rise, but already the air was thick with heat, and the sounds of crickets. Reveille would sound soon, rousing the camp, and the compound would soon fill with weary, khaki-clad bodies, and the air would fill with noise. The moonlight that was seeping in through the canvas tent, lazily washing its occupants in a hazy gunmetal grey, would soon give way to the sun, and the day would officially begin.

Only two people were already awake, and had been so for some time. The repair job they'd done on the wall where the still had once stood was far from perfect, and for the past two hours, the moon had been carefully projecting itself through the cracks and into the eyes of its occupants with all the accuracy of a sniper.

"Trapper?" A voice whispered across the tent. "Are you awake?"

"Guess I am now," came the reply. "Damn bugs. Someone tell 'em to put a sock in it."

They lay there and listened to the frantic pre-dawn chorus of cheeps and chattering. Hawkeye rubbed his eyes and stretched. "What time is it?"

"How should I know?" Trapper thumped his pillow. A pause, and then: "It's still dark. Hours to go yet, I'm sure. Try an' get some sleep."

"Right. Let's just lie here and wait for our lives to collapse around our ears."

It wasn't like they could do anything else. Resigned to another morning of incarceration, insomnia and fitful, tense waiting for the sword of J-CORP to descend upon him, Hawkeye flopped back onto his cot. He scratched idly at the crescent shaped scab on his shin which hadn't quite healed. Christ, Frank had heavy boots…

"Do you suppose this really is it?" He felt like he'd been waiting for this day all week, and yet it still hadn't hit home.

Trapper launched a second assault on his pillow, either out of anger, or just an attempt to make anything army-issue vaguely comfortable. "I don't see how we're gettin' outta this one, Hawk."

Silence descended again, and Trapper tried to think about the day in stages. _Shower. Breakfast. Class As._ If he broke it down, tried to breathe evenly, it loomed less. Seemed like any other day. _Jeep. Seoul. Courtroom. Discharge. Plane. Home. Louise..._

His reverie was drowned out by the growing crescendo of crickets, although it soon became apparent that wasn't just bugs. The sound deepened to a mechanical rumbling, accompanied by dirt crunching underfoot and hard thuds slipping in the ground, and suddenly Klinger burst in through the tent door. He was wearing a helmet, and a dress that was far too violent a shade of orange for this time in the morning.

"Wounded, Sirs! Choppers incoming! Up and at 'em!"

Hawkeye and Trapper exchanged a look. Aside from that, neither one of them moved.

Klinger stared at them. "What – am I doing it wrong? There are _helicopters_ landing as we speak! Ambulances!" He mimed driving a vehicle as if playing charades. "Wounded people – blood, shrapnel, viscera, all that stuff! You gotta get up!"

Still, neither doctor moved a muscle. "You gotta be kiddin' me," Trapper growled.

"Klinger, as much as you have my vote in the competition for 'Radar O'Reilly Impersonator of the Month', in case you have forgotten, Captains Pierce and McIntyre – that is, us – are confined to quarters under military orders."

"So? You always disobey orders!"

"Oh no! Not today!" Trapper snorted and buried his face in his pillow.

"Yeah, and you see where it's gotten us?! Look, we hate to have to miss the party, but the military don't want anything to do with us, and frankly, I've never been happier to oblige. Apart from which, Trapper and I are about to put on our Sunday best and attend a delightful brass function known as a _court martial_ , so unfortunately we're going to have to decline your invitation to today's bloodbath."

"We'll bring you back a cocktail sausage." Trapper's voice was still muffled by his pillow.

The approaching thrum of helicopters was briefly interrupted by a crackle and hiss, and then by the world-weary voice of Henry Blake over the P.A.: "Would Pierce and McIntyre kindly haul themselves out of bed and report to O.R."

Klinger gave Hawkeye a look and pointed in the direction of the announcement. "See? I told you!"

Klinger ducked, and the space where his head had been was suddenly occupied by Hawkeye's pillow as it flew across the tent.

 **04:42**

"What gives?" Hawkeye demanded, as he and Trapper marched into Henry's office. "It's death o'clock in the morning, we've had no sleep–"

"Tossin' an' turnin', worryin' about your future will do that to a guy."

"–And something else I'm forgetting, just a tiny little detail: he, thee, and me are supposed to be on the first Jeep to Seoul so the army can string us up by our ankles!" Hawkeye flourished a finger in the air, almost jabbing it in Henry's eye. "And _you_ call us in to do a final round of meatball surgery!"

"They weren't prepared to stop the war for you." Henry gave them a thin, exhausted smile that had no business being up and about at this hour and should still be tucked up in bed. "Look, fellas: there was a big offensive last night. Some general decided he really wanted a particular hill for his trophy cabinet and sent half a dozen units after it. We've got wounded comin' outta our ears, and I'm not gonna leave Frank all on his own."

"Why not? Did he eat the chalk again?"

"Do his business in the sandpit?"

Henry sighed. "I'm not kidding around, boys. I _need_ you. I've got Radar on the phone trying to postpone your court date. I'll take full responsibility if they kick off; you boys won't get in any more trouble."

"It isn't the military we're worried about!" Hawkeye continued to gesticulate dangerously close to Henry's face. "What's everyone else gonna say when Trap and I march through the doors all scrubbed up and ready to stick our grubby homosexual hands into America's finest? Nobody wants to be near us, let alone work with us! You had us confined to quarters for a _reason_ Henry! Not because you're a stickler for military discipline, but because the last time we set foot outside the Swamp, if you remember, we nearly started a riot! Do you _really_ want Klinger to have to start slinging shoes in your operating room?"

"I don't care if it starts raining Judy Garland's ruby slippers in there! I wouldn't be asking if I didn't _need_ you!" Henry stood up so fast he almost knocked over Hawkeye, who was still talking with his limbs. "I don't like this anymore than you do, but since my best surgeons had to go and get themselves caught _playing doctor_ –"

Trapper's fists curled slightly. "D'ya think I wanted this, Henry?"

"No, McIntyre, probably not! But since you couldn't stop thinking with your–"

"Figure A?" Hawkeye offered with a thin smile.

"–And start thinking with your head for five seconds, I'm gonna be two surgeons down while the military drags its heels to replace you!"

"So, you'll be short anyway!" Hawkeye matched Henry's anger in a second, and then challenged it to a second lap around the football field. "Why not start early? You stay here and babysit Frank. Trapper and I are old enough and ugly enough to take _ourselves_ to be court martialled." He shot Trapper a smile. "What do you say, dear? Lovely day for it!"

Trapper turned puce. Henry shook his head. "I said no."

"Henry, I'm not saying this to be difficult! But we might do more harm than good if we go in there. The nurses are doing an excellent line in pretending we don't exist, and as for Frank, I think he'd rather defect to the North Koreans than be in the same room as us! The entire camp has treated us like shit off their combat boots for a week! I don't see that changing – especially not when they're just gearing up to give us a great big send-off."

Henry fixed him with a glare. "Well, they'll have to wait! I've got a kid being flown in from battalion aid with a hole in his chest the size of the Gulf of Mexico, and without the attention of a damned fine thoracic surgeon, he can kiss going home goodbye. If you wanna curl up in your tent and feel sorry for yourselves, go ahead, but the rest of us are gonna be in O.R. trying to salvage what's left of these boys' intestines. Feel free to pick up your medical licences and join in at any time!"

Trapper watched as Henry stormed out of the office. Hawkeye stood mutely beside the desk, silent and defeated. "C'mon Hawk. One last dance."

"I don't see why we're still at the party when everyone's made it pretty clear we're not welcome." Hawkeye's reply was sorrowful and begrudging, but he followed him out regardless. Doctors first and foremost, whatever else anybody called them.

 **05:01**

And call them names they did. Frank was the first in line. "How come you're letting a couple of degenerates operate on these brave American boys?" His lips – or what passed for them – curled with revulsion.

"Because," Henry replied with exasperated patience, as though talking to a child, "if Pierce and McIntyre go to the court martial, I have to go with them, and then you'd be operating all on your lonesome. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

They continued to argue as Trapper changed into his scrubs, grateful for the distraction; he didn't need anybody making quips about keeping backs to the wall. Hawkeye, who had already donned his surgical whites, inspected his reflection in a pair of haemostatic forceps.

"Darling, does this shade of bleached white make me look pasty?"

"Knock it off, Hawk," Trapper muttered under his breath, face hot with embarrassment. Hawkeye stomped off to the scrub sink and aggressively slammed the tap on.

"If this is how you're gonna be–" he started, but he was swiftly interrupted.

"–And if I find any of that peroxide on your head instead of on the instruments, you'll be on report!" Major Houlihan's voice burst into the room, followed closely by Major Houlihan and a gaggle of nurses.

"Nakahara, check the blood stocks, get donations for anything we're low on. Mitchell, make sure the autoclave is operational and start distributing instruments. Carter and Feinberg, you're – oh for god's sake, somebody go and wake them! Baker, help the doctors scrub, and then..."

Nurse Baker looked at Trapper. Hawkeye was used by now to the nurses looking at them with disgust, but this was... something else entirely. This was pure horror.

And with a sinking heart, Hawkeye remembered why.

That 'double date' in the supply room. Suddenly, Hawkeye's mind raced back to a vivid memory of Baker's legs wrapped around Trapper's naked torso. She'd known that he was there in the room with them, but not that they were… together. And, judging by the look on Baker's face, that was an omission that she was not about to overlook.

Finally, she spoke. "Oh no. Not _him_."

"Baker–" started Major Houlihan.

"I'm not working with McIntyre, Margaret, it's unsanitary! God knows what him and Pierce are spreading around, I won't–"

"One more word from you and you'll be on report as well!" The room went silent as everyone turned to stare. "You are a nurse in the US army and you will do your duty! And I am a Major and you will address me as such! Have I made myself clear?"

"Perfectly, _Major_."

She stormed over to the sinks, taking a detour past the autoclave and muttering under her breath to Nurse Mitchell.

Trapper busied himself scrubbing, while Hawkeye tried to ignore the furious words he heard being hissed behind his back. 'Disgusting' was one of them. He glanced over his shoulder in reflex – right into the eyes of Nurse Mitchell.

Less than three weeks ago, Hawkeye and Mitchell had enjoyed an evening to themselves in the supply tent, and Trapper had pretended not to notice when he staggered back to the Swamp long after the sun had come up. If Baker had been Trapper's cover, then Mitchell had been Hawkeye's. Now, she fixed Hawkeye with a furious look, and he shifted uncomfortably.

Major Houlihan looked around at the room of silent nurses and awkward doctors, and threw her hands up in exasperation. "Does anyone in here intend to operate, or are you just going to stand there?"

Trapper was first to speak. "Thanks, Margaret," he said, slightly stunned at her outburst.

She glared at him. "I didn't say it for you."

 **08:52**

The stream of casualties was constant, but Frank had carefully honed his ability to insult and botch operations at the same time, and he wasn't about to let anything stop him.

"Never mind McIntyre, maybe you'll be able to get a nice job in the State Department. As a receptionist."

Trapper tried not to twitch, and largely succeeded – which was fortunate for the intestine he was stitching.

Hawkeye ground his teeth behind his mask and waited for Trapper's scathing reply. None was forthcoming. "Looks like Frank's aiming to become a vocational guidance counsellor," Hawkeye announced a little too loudly.

"Is that supposed to be funny?" Frank's eyes narrowed.

"Not at all – I think it's a great idea." Hawkeye flung a piece of shrapnel into a bucket with a loud _clang._ "Maybe you'll ruin less lives."

Frank almost ballooned with rage. "Colonel, did you hear that!"

"Look, fellas..."

Silence fell, although it would be brief. Hawkeye risked a glance at Trapper, who was working on Frank's table by the door rather than his usual one next to Hawkeye. Frank had demanded it, and he'd have laughed if it wasn't so excruciating; Ferret Face vocally insisting somebody had to stand between "the degenerates", lest they try to... jump one another during surgery, presumably. Henry had volunteered Frank for the task, seeing as how he'd been the one to insist. That had been entertaining.

Trapper was focussed entirely on his patient, ignoring everything around him, including Hawkeye.

Then Frank looked up, just at the wrong moment, catching Hawkeye's eye. He bristled. "Making eyes at your _boyfriend_ , Pierce?"

The room went deathly quiet, just for a moment.

At last, out of necessity more than choice, Trapper broke the silence: "4-0 silk." His voice was quiet, and trembling slightly, and Hawkeye's heart sank.

A clatter somewhere near his right foot startled him back to reality. His assisting nurse – Carter, Margaret had called her – had dropped a retractor with shaking hands. Her look of mortification was visible even under her mask, but everyone bustled on, almost like normal.

Hawkeye sighed as the nurse blushed and rummaged around the instrument tray for a replacement.

"I'm sorry."

"In your own time." Hawkeye held out his hand. As he waited, his eyes wandered back to Trapper's table, irresistibly drawn to him, out of concern more than anything. Nurse Feinberg met his gaze, staring in his direction, unmoving. Hawkeye shuddered, but stared right back.

 **12:21**

Sometime around his fifth patient - or Frank's fiftieth insult, it was hard to tell – Trapper stepped into Radar's room, where the company clerk hummed away obliviously into the telephone.

"Radar," Trapper said quietly, to which Radar almost jumped out of his chair. "Henry wants to know if you've got an update on the postponement."

 _'_ _Henry could have come out here and asked himself,'_ Trapper thought irritably – he too had been between bowel resections when the commander had nonchalantly made the request, waving away Trapper's protestations. Henry was not a subtle man, and he probably hoped that Trapper coming out here would make him and Radar hash out their differences, like squabbling children, as though this were an episode of _I Love Lucy_ and it would all sort itself out at the end. ' _Bit late for that now,_ ' Trapper thought.

"Radar?" he asked again. "Have you got through to anyone?"

"No sir, nothing yet," Radar mumbled. He inspected the floorboards, not with any particular interest or casual disdain, but Trapper could only presume it was because lifting his head might bring about the end of the world. Trapper left the room, and with it, all hope of ever seeing Radar look him in the eye through those dirty glasses of his ever again.

 **14:36**

"You'd better keep an eye on those perverts, Nurse Feinberg; make sure they're not doing a sneaky colon operation."

Feinberg's head whipped up. "Sir?"

"Major! There are ladies present! I'm one of them!"

"Sorry, Margaret – I mean Major..."

"Metzenbaum scissors!" Trapper said for the third time. He nudged Feinberg with his elbow. "Come on honey. I got places to be."

"Yes, like a stockade!"

"Do you get paid per quip, Frank?" Hawkeye snapped irritably, inspecting his patient's intestines for errant bullet holes. "You sure as hell aren't getting paid per life saved."

"Colonel! The Major is being abused!"

"Pierce…"

"Maybe he likes it? You ought'a know!"

Henry dropped a clamp. "Pierce, put a damn lid on it will ya?"

Hawkeye carefully removed the clamp from his patient and, satisfied there was no bleeding, angrily threw it down on the floor. "Fine, Henry. Whatever." He nudged Nurse Carter, who was still assisting him – when she wasn't fumbling with instruments, anyway. "Do you think you could give me the 3-0 silk, or is that too much to ask?"

"Sorry, Doctor," she murmured. She still wouldn't look at him, Hawkeye noted.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he looked up, sensing he was being watched. Once again, he found himself looking directly into the eyes of Nurse Feinberg.

He snorted into his mask. Between Frank spending more time insulting than operating, one nurse who wouldn't look at him, and another who kept glaring at him, he couldn't help but think he'd been right all along: they were doing more harm than good here. ' _See, Henry, I'm nothing but a wrench in your well-oiled surgical machine, just like I said I was. Can I go home now?'_

Instinctively, he glanced up at Trapper once more. Feinberg was _still_ watching. And, for the first time, Hawkeye looked away in shame, scared of what someone might say if they saw him again.

 **16:11**

Frank had finally fallen silent. His jibes had been difficult to bear, but now tension screamed into the silences. The air was thick with heat and hostility, and Hawkeye was almost longing for an insult or five just to break it.

"Okay, I think that's it," Trapper was muttering from his table. "Grab me that X-ray again – I wanna be sure."

"Yes, Doctor." Feinberg stepped away from the table.

"Get it and be quick, honey, we've only got the table 'til eight."

"Don't call me honey!" Feinberg snapped, stalking out of the room to retrieve her errant X-ray. She brushed passed Hawkeye's table, and he could swear he heard a whisper from her as he inspected the stitches across his patient's torso. Was _everything_ he did a cause for scrutiny? Was even casting his eye across another man's chest enough to arouse suspicion?

"Come on girls. You have a job to do," Margaret said warningly.

A voice spoke up from Hawkeye's shoulder. "Major, I don't feel so great..."

"Then get out from under my feet," snapped Margaret. "Kellye, take over."

Hawkeye didn't blame her. It was warm, far too warm. "I'm finished here, anyway. Someone escort this man to post-op. I need some air."

He ripped off his gloves and marched through the O.R. Pretended people weren't staring at him. Held his head high.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Trapper looking away, and sighed. ' _He doesn't get it,'_ he thought. Hawkeye could no more _not_ fill a room with his entire presence than he could willingly stop breathing. If people were going to look, show them how you want to be seen.

He passed through x-ray, pushing the door open with a refreshing swish, and, hearing voices on the other side, he leaned around the curtain.

He registered their words fractionally too late.

"… but Annie, that could be us in there!"

"Would you stop crying – someone's gonna ask…"

The door behind him banged closed, and the two women whipped round. Hawkeye was far too familiar with the way a room felt when two people have just jumped away from one another, but he wasn't about to say a word. He ignored the streaks of tears down Carter's face, and the way Feinberg's hand was twisted into her companion's sleeve. For a moment, he struggled to remember what he was going to say.

"Annie? Uh... Nurse Feinberg? Trapper still wants his X-ray."

Feinberg didn't reply. She snatched the X-ray up from the screen and walked back into O.R., and Carter followed soon after.

 _'_ _She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at Nurse Carter. That whisper…'_

The door banged closed again, and Hawkeye was left alone with his thoughts.

 **19:03**

Trapper staggered out of O.R and into the corridor. Pre-op was thinning, but there were still bodies on stretchers lining both walls. The air was sticky, the evening sun was unseasonably warm, and the floor was covered with blood. _Just another day in Korea._ He hadn't taken a proper break all day. The one time he could have grabbed one, Hawkeye had beat him to the punch, sailing through the room utterly unconcerned as always, and Trapper had been too scared to follow.

Out in the compound, he flopped onto the nearest bench and sat down heavily, closing his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

"At least you're thinking of Him during this difficult time," came the voice next to him.

"Shit," Trapper groaned. "Sorry, Father."

"That's quite alright," Father Mulcahy replied, although there was a tautness to his voice that suggested it wasn't quite, actually, thank you.

An awkward silence followed. Trapper tried to fill it. "How many more wounded we got out there?"

"About a dozen or so. Mostly stitches and plastering, thank God…"

"Oh. That's good. We'll only be another eight hours then," Trapper replied, only partly joking, and rubbed the stubble coming in on his face. "What's the time?"

"Around seven." Mulcahy offered the information without even glancing at his watch. Accuracy, he figured, was not necessary here. He could tell when there's another question under the first one. "If it wasn't for these poor boys," he said tentatively, "you would probably be on a plane by now."

More silence. _This is embarrassing now_ , Trapper thought; he'd been hoping to make it out of here without having to see the look in Mulcahy's face. ' _You should know better, John.'_ He should. He knew only too well. There's a letter 'C' stamped into his dog-tags – _Catholic_ – and now, there's another brand, too, burnt into his skin; a punishment, hell-fire snaking across his flesh. _Queer._

"I'm sorry, Father," he mumbled. "I must be quite a disappointment to ya."

Mulcahy didn't respond immediately. The silence stretched out and out, long enough that Trapper wondered if he'd better leave. But eventually, he replied. "We'll be sorry to lose you. You're both excellent surgeons. For the sake of the wounded, I'll be sad to see you go. But… I don't think my disappointment is really what's at stake here. If you need to talk–"

"What is there to talk about?" Trapper worried at his lower lip, swaying slightly, his hands clasped in front of him. "It's finished. All over. _Finito_. Eight years of marriage, ten in medicine–"

"It's never, ever too late." Mulcahy very rarely interrupted.

Trapper looked at him curiously. "Is it too late to confess?"

The Father smiled. If he was shocked in any way, he did a good job of not showing it. "Not at all, my son. Do you want to go to my tent, or..."

Trapper shook his head. "I don't wanna leave the wounded."

Mulcahy nodded. They turned away from the bustling compound, and the Father lowered his head and closed his eyes, a poor substitution for a confessional curtain. Mulcahy made the sign of the cross, and Trapper mirrored his actions a little awkwardly, and then began: "Forgive... Forgive me Father, for I – for I have sinned. It's been…" How many years since his last confession? He faltered, and then burst out in nervous laughter. "I can't… I can't remember."

"It's alright. Continue."

He took a breath, and wavered. Shut his eyes tight and now, in a rush: "Forgive me Father for I have sinned and this time I sinned so great I don't think I'll ever get past it –"

Mulcahy gently lifted a hand to calm him. The gesture was small, economical; it was what made him such a good poker player, the ability to control his meaning with a movement. He waited for Trapper to wipe his eyes before speaking. "No sinner is beyond redemption, John. The Lord is _forgiving_ , after all. If you pray for His guidance–"

Laughing bitterly, Trapper buried his face in his hands, all semblance of formality breaking down. "Prayin' ain't gonna save me from a court martial, Father. Prayin' ain't gonna stop 'em from takin' my kids away from me, or my wife from tossin' me out on my ass." His voice was trembling. He blurted the words out with little thought or ceremony. He had scarcely even dared imagine Louise and the girls until now. The shame had been too great.

Pausing, Mulcahy gathered his thoughts for a moment. "No," he replied. "No, it won't."

"Tell me what I gotta do, Father. How many 'Hail Mary's to get this thing off my shoulders? How many rosaries I gotta say? Come on!" Trapper was ranting, tears stinging his eyes as his hands balled into fists.

"My son!" Mulcahy's exclamation made Trapper jump, but not half as much as the halting hand on his arm did. "I think… what you're asking for an absolution, which is something I can't grant. The path to redemption isn't intended to be easy. If it was, _everybody_ would be doing it."

Trapper sniffed and wiped his face again. "What are you saying, Father? That I deserve this? This is my… my punishment? From God as well as from the Army?"

"Not at all, my son. Far from it." Mulcahy sounded almost… annoyed, stiffening slightly and blinking as he squinted out into the dusty evening. "The rewards and punishments of the Lord are reserved only for the next world, and I do believe it's the judgement of mankind that seems to be bothering you the most."

"How could it not?!" Trapper wrung his hands, rocking to and fro, anxious and agitated. "You know what the regulations are – what they're gonna do to us, me an' Hawkeye. You've seen the way people look at us, judgin' us, an' the things they're sayin'. An' I know you're prob'ly thinkin' it too, 'cause I know as well as you do what it says in that book of yours, only you're too polite to say it."

"Would you like me to?"

Trapper thought on that for a moment. "I think it might feel better comin' from you than the brass over in Seoul."

Mulcahy nodded, and Trapper closed his eyes. "Yes, John. Sodomy is indeed a sin."

Trapper released a breath he didn't know he was holding. Somehow, Mulcahy's honesty felt wonderfully cleansing in a way that Hawkeye emphatically tossing the F-word at Radar just didn't. Nobody else had actually said it all week. They had tiptoed around it with embarrassed innuendo or barbed comments. Even Henry had been cagey about the finer details of his report, and, so far, Hawkeye's choice words to Frank had been the closest anyone had gotten to an exact definition of Article 125.

When Trapper opened his eyes, the Father was still talking: "Adultery is a sin, also, and – if you'll forgive me for saying so – your reputation in that department somewhat precedes you. And yet, you never sought my advice until now… but then, I suppose–"

"Nobody ever tried to kick me outta the army for–"

"– _Coveting_ nurses," Mulcahy intercepted quickly with a polite cough and a stern look. "No, indeed." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "I won't lie to you, John: There is nothing either one of us can say or do that will change the course of the upcoming legal proceedings. The court martial will make its own decision, on the basis that this is one of the few Biblical matters that the army has decided, in its 'infinite wisdom', to get involved with." There was a slight edge to Mulcahy's tone. "I don't doubt that the life that awaits you in the States will be hard."

Trapper gave a bitter chuckle. "You can say that again. How many big city doctors do you see with a Dishonourable Discharge hangin' on the wall in their office?"

"Hmm." Mulcahy frowned. "Indeed. But perhaps, you could use this time to focus on the… less material things that you value in your life. While you may not be able to heal the sick, you _can_ heal your marriage."

Sighing, Trapper stared at the dirt on his boots. His money, his marriage and his children were all tied up in a messy knot together. Being a good husband and being a doctor came hand-in-hand: provide for your wife, provide for your kids. It was all part of the lifestyle he'd failed to uphold – a lifestyle he was rapidly beginning to think he wasn't cut out for. Could he really go back to that after everything that had happened? "I don't know, Father…"

"You may not be a surgeon for much longer, but you're a husband and a father above all else. Focus on your wife and your children, earn _their_ forgiveness, honour your marriage vows, and then, I think, perhaps you might be on the way to find the redemption you seek."

Trapper gave a nod. "That's a nice little picture you paint there, Father. Just one tiny problem: this ain't just about me." He glanced back at the hospital. Through the window, he could see various figures in white scrubs stooped over their patients in the brightly-lit room beyond. Funny – he could spot Hawkeye in a crowded room full of identically dressed people, in a surgical mask. Even now, he smiled. "I don't want anythin' bad happenin' to Hawkeye, either," he choked out. "It tears me up inside to think of anybody hurtin' him. But they will, won't they?"

Mulcahy followed his gaze to the window. "You care about him deeply, don't you?"

"Is that a sin, too?" Trapper's tone was confrontational, but Mulcahy wasn't in the least bit accusing, and he wished in retrospect he could take back his sharpness.

"Not at all, my son. Caring for another human soul is far from a sin. However…" Mulcahy considered his next words carefully. "If those feelings you have for Hawkeye are what led you to break your marital vows, then perhaps… it might be advisable to put some distance between you. Sins of the flesh are one matter entirely, but affairs of the heart are, so I am led to believe, infinitely more painful, and… if you carry on down this path…" He spoke slowly, carefully. "… It's not just Hawkeye who is likely to be hurt. Nobody ever said moving on was easy, but I meant it when I said it's never too late. Believe that. And believe in the Lord."

Letting out a long, steady breath, Trapper closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. "Tell me Father, do you pull your punches in the boxing ring at all?" He smiled weakly.

Mulcahy chuckled, and they sat together for a few minutes, Mulcahy fingering his rosary beads, Trapper toying with his dog tags, each of them deep in thought, and silent.

 **22:14**

Trapper lay staring at the canvas ceiling of the Swamp and rubbed restlessly at his aching eyeballs. This was just a joke. ' _Go get some sleep._ ' they'd said. ' _Go grab a couple of hours while it's quiet_.' That was an hour and forty-five minutes ago, and he had yet to grab anything resembling sleep.

He closed his eyes – it was more of a blink than sleep – and within a minute he heard the door go. A moment later, the side of his cot sank, and a pair of hands laid themselves gently over his eyelids.

"Guess who?"

"Betty Page."

"Wrong." Hawkeye removed his hands, and Trapper opened his eyes. "It's the other sexy brunette in your life."

 _'_ _Louise is a brunette_ …' Trapper frowned. "How can you make jokes like that at a time like this?"

"The same way I always make jokes like that at times like this – a grim, stubborn refusal to take life seriously." He patted Trapper on the leg. "Anyway, that was your early midnight wakeup call. They need you in surgery."

Rolling his eyes, Trapper sat up. He was almost grateful – operating was marginally less mentally exhausting than trying to sleep. "You gettin' some sack time now?" He tried not to sound too hopeful – the tension in the O.R. was bearable when Hawkeye wasn't in it.

"Negative. Battalion Aid just sent me another chest case. I figure the Army wanted to give me a going-away gift and it seemed rude to refuse. Frank's just gone down for his nap, and you…" He patted Trapper's shoulder, suddenly morose. "… have a double amputation all of your very own."

Trapper winced and ran a hand over his face. "Jesus…"

"I know." Hawkeye leaned closer to give Trapper a comforting hug, but Trapper pulled away and busied himself getting his boots back on.

"I thought we'd thinned out."

"Yeah, well, we fattened up again."

"Clearly some idiot keeps feedin' the war."

"I hear it's an 'all-you-can-eat'." Hawkeye watched in silence as Trapper laced his boots. "Hey," he said at last as they prepared to leave. "It'll all be over soon."

' _Were ever truer words spoken_?' Trapper thought lyrically to himself. "Yeah…" he muttered in response.

Hawkeye tried to take his hand, and, again, Trapper pulled away. His brow furrowing, Hawkeye retreated a little. "Are you okay?"

Staring at the door and attempting, yet again, to dredge up the courage to walk through it, Trapper shook his head. "No. No I'm really not."

 **02:09 - September 28** **th** **1951**

He could barely keep his eyes open. The chest case had been messy, the work painstaking, but at least the concentration kept him awake. Now, the worst was over, and the final trickle of broken bones, flesh wounds, burns and other minor wounds were lining up outside their door.

"Okay, fellas!" Henry announced with what little zest he had left in him. "One last push. Klinger, go wake up Burns. Margaret… Where the hell is Margaret? Uh… Kellye, go to the nurses' tent and get B shift back on. Everybody else, take five. And somebody get me something for my corns!"

Trapper slumped across his operating table, resting his head on his arms. Hawkeye tried his hardest not to smile. Or look. Or even register his existence. "Anything I can do, Henry?"

"If you're feeling athletic, you can head over to supply and pick up a couple'a gas canisters. You sure you don't wanna take five?"

Hawkeye yawned. "I'm fine. I slept last Wednesday. Besides, if I sit down now, I won't wanna get up again." He strolled out. Trapper flinched as he walked past. Hawkeye pretended not to care.

Crossing the compound to the supply shed was… oddly nostalgic. How many times over these past months had he and Trapper crept into the dark confines of the tiny building? How many times had Hawkeye reassured him as they barricaded the door, ' _It's okay, Trap. Nobody's gonna walk in. It'll be fine!_ ' How he wanted to eat those words now!

His mind flooding with bittersweet memories, he pushed the door open and snapped the light on.

There was a shriek, and a thud, and Frank and Margaret leapt apart, staring at him. Hawkeye stared back. At any other time, he might have found this hilarious. Instead, he ignored them and turned to lift the first of the heavy gas canisters from the shelf, leaving the Majors to adjust their uniforms and neaten their hair in silence.

"Awfully quiet, aren't you, Pierce?" Frank snapped as he straightened his cap. "What's the matter? Lost your sense of humour? You normally find this sort of thing terribly amusing. Why so quiet, huh?"

Hawkeye heaved a canister onto the floor with a clang, and scowled in Frank's direction. Why did it even matter? What did his opinion count for? Frank and Margaret weren't the ones who were about to get the boot. He glanced between the pair of them. "I'll tell you why. _I don't care_. That's why." He pulled a second canister out, slamming it onto the floor. "I never did. The only reason I _ever_ cared was because it was so funny watching you two flapping over one another trying to pretend to be subtle! But it's not even amusing any more - it's _pathetic_."

"Oh, like _you're_ one to talk!" Frank snorted. He finished tucking his shirt, pecked Margaret on the cheek like he was showing off, and stalked out.

Margaret didn't follow. She was still adjusting her uniform, although whether this has simply escaped Frank's attention or if it was just a carefully orchestrated scheme to ensure they didn't arrive in O.R. together, Hawkeye couldn't tell. He was familiar enough with the latter, but then, he and Trapper were more subtle. Or rather, _had_ been.

She approached slowly, addressing the back of Hawkeye's head, quietly seething. "Frank's _right_ , Pierce. You _are_ a fine one to talk!"

Hawkeye spun on his heel. "Well, look at the Major calling the Captain khaki!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean you and Major Hypocrite looking down your nose at _everybody_ in this camp who indulges in the odd little carnal pastime, when you're no better than any of us! Maybe I did gloat from time to time, but the two of you are so sanctimonious, so judgemental, so inflated on your own superiority, _somebody_ needed to bring you back down to our level!"

"Is that what you think?"

"Yes, that's _exactly_ what I think!" He turned back to his canisters and set about trying to figure out how to move them back to the hospital.

But Margaret wasn't done. Moving in beside him, she stood, hands on hips, his expression angry but resolute. "You think I don't know what it's like to be judged?! Do you think it's easy to be a woman in this man's army; to have... personal relations and think you're an equal, only to find the men are laughing at you behind your back? You think you're so easy-going, so open-minded, but the only time you think a woman is entitled to her sexuality is when she's beneath you - in _both_ respects."

Hawkeye dropped the tank with a crash. "Now, _that's_ a load of..."

"If I didn't outrank you, you'd have been chasing after me like you chase after everybody in this damned unit! Don't think I haven't been on the receiving end of that kind of attention! The way you are with the nurses, I've seen it all before. I've met plenty of men like you in my time, believe me." She paused, thinking for a moment. Then, she bit the bullet. "And I had my fun, just like you. And yet, _you_ think that makes me laughable. You think it undermines my authority. And, as it happens, an awful lot of the world agrees with you. So yes, I _know_ what it's like to walk through a room and feel everybody looking down on you because of your personal life. I know what it's like to be gossiped about in the mess tent. I know what _judgement_ feels like."

Hawkeye listened silently, his hands frozen around the cold metal of the gas tank. "Then I guess we have something in common."

Margaret exhaled slowly and stepped back a little, smoothing her uniform. "I guess we do..."

Her hand rested on one of the canisters, and Hawkeye let her take it as he lifted the other. They struggled with their heavy load, making their way slowly to the door. Hawkeye paused with his hand on the doorknob. "There is one big difference between you and me."

Margaret blinked at him. "What's that, Captain?"

Hawkeye cracked a smile – the first one he'd managed all day. "I have better taste in men."

The stunned Major looked at him for a moment, almost surprised that he was being so blatant. Shock and discomfort flickered across her face, but, in the end she merely nodded. "Granted."

"Jealous?" Hawkeye's smile widened.

"Get the door," Margaret told him.

 **03:57**

What was it he'd said to Father Mulcahy? Eight hours? Close enough… Eight, nine, what was the difference? Either way, Trapper was exhausted. The final patient had insisted on waiting until last, even with two broken legs.

"You're a real gentleman," Hawkeye noted, while slathering one leg in plaster. "Either that or you're terrified of us."

The soldier smiled. "Truth be told," he said quietly, "I was too embarrassed."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I didn't even get injured in the battle." He dropped his voice and leaned in. "I got run over by the jeep at Battalion Aid."

There was an extremely short silence, punctured almost immediately by Hawkeye howling with laughter. His laughter, as always, was contagious, and even now, even with everything on his mind, Trapper couldn't help but catch his eye, and then he was chuckling too. He needed a laugh, after the day he'd had.

There was a loud clatter as Frank deposited several surgical trays in an untidy heap at the nurse's station. "Oh stop cavorting! Some of us are on post-op duty tomorrow morning and I'd quite like to go to bed!"

"Then go, Frank!" Trapper wound another layer of bandage around Hawkeye's handiwork. "It ain't like you're helpin' us."

Frank huffed, but hesitated at the doorway. "You're trying to get rid of me."

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. " _Finally_ he takes a hint!" The soldier tried to disguise his laughter and very nearly succeeded.

"Oh stop that!" Frank was turning a rather excellent shade of pink. "Corrupting innocents! I knew I shouldn't have left this soldier alone! Not with deviancy and perversion at every turn!"

"Knock it off, Frank!" Hawkeye angrily slopped another handful of plaster onto the bandages. "A little bedside manner never hurt anyone!"

"I don't want to think about _your_ bedside–"

 _"_ _Frank!"_ Trapper's voice was little more than a growl.

Still oblivious, the soldier continued to chuckle, his shaking limbs in serious danger of wrecking Hawkeye's plaster work. "It's all good, doc. I don't mind a little draftee humour. These guys crack me up."

Frank cleared the distance between them in four paces. "I think you'll find, _Sergeant_ , that these two go a _little_ beyond what you might class as 'draftee humour'."

The soldier's face fell. "Sorry – _Major_."

Frank gave a curt nod, then continued. "Mark my words, soldier – I'll be staying _right_ here."

Hawkeye bit his lip. "Okay, _fine_. Stay. Do whatever you want."

Frank stayed, and he brought an awkward silence with him as a guest, as the two Captains continued to layer plaster upon bandage and vice versa.

"Why's he gotta be here?" the Sergeant piped up, uneasy, gesturing to Frank, who seemed to be standing guard. "He's givin' me the creeps."

Hawkeye shot Frank a look.

Perhaps it was a sudden attack of conscience, or more likely, fear of reprisal, or even embarrassment, but Frank's tone was suddenly hesitant; his words almost uncharacteristically vague. "Well... you know. We're out here fighting for the red white and blue, not the reds and the pinkos. We need to protect our soldiers from the lavender menace. It can come from anywhere."

It was an excellent regurgitation of politician's sound-bites and colour coordination charts, and Hawkeye would have rolled his eyes at it, had he not spotted the soldier worrying at his lip. He froze, up to his wrists in plaster as the Sergeant turned to face him.

"Is he tryin' to be funny?"

"Course 'e is." It was Trapper who spoke. "Just relax, pal."

The Sergeant didn't relax. "He shouldn't joke about stuff like that."

Hawkeye shot Frank a pointed glare. "You're right, Sergeant, he _shouldn't_."

He hoped his agreement might calm the soldier down. It didn't work. Instead, he turned on Trapper. "I heard a rumour!" His voice had an unpleasant, dangerous edge to it, and Trapper flinched.

Hawkeye tensed. His eyes narrowed, and a thin, joyless smile appeared on his face. "Oh, you did, did you? A rumour? Fancy that."

"At Battalion Aid. Someone said there was a couple of doctors who got caught in the middle of... y'know…"

Hawkeye tossed a lump of plaster into the basin. Water sloshed out onto the floor. "Ah, that popular medicinal pastime of 'y'know'… I know a doctor in D.C. who prescribes a little 'y'know' for haemorrhoids." Trapper winced, but nobody spotted.

The soldier wheeled around again – it was like he was watching a tennis match. "You think that's funny?"

Trapper noticed the manic, furious gleam in Hawkeye's eye, and he knew in that moment they were done for.

"Funny?" Hawkeye abandoned his plastering entirely. "I think it's _hilarious_! Not content with merely ruining my career in medicine, it would appear the army has decided to feed me to the rumour mill as well as the wolves!"

The soldier turned from Hawkeye, to Trapper, to Frank – who was standing open-mouthed with shock – and back to Hawkeye. Finally he spluttered: "Huh?"

"Your sources are partially correct." This time, Trapper didn't flinch. He was getting worryingly good at predicting Hawkeye's inability to let go of a fight. Hawkeye was using that icy cold tone that Trapper recognised so well – the one that barely concealed the simmering anger beneath. "There _were_ a couple of doctors – I should know, I was one of the couple – but just so you know, we didn't get caught 'in the middle' of anything, unless cuddling got reclassified as a raucous sex act when I wasn't looking!"

"Hawkeye," Trapper hissed, "Don't –"

"And yet," Hawkeye continued loudly, ignoring both Trapper's indignation and Frank slowly picking his jaw off the floor, "the army, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that hauling us up by our short and curlies for a vigorous cross-examination of our sordid personal histories is an exercise worthy of its precious time and resources! And on top of all that, you're telling me that _my sex life_ is now gossip fodder in the front line trenches?"

"Hawk!"

"Shut up, Trapper!" Hawkeye rounded on him. "Open your eyes instead of hoping this will all go away if you screw them shut long enough! We're surrounded by toy soldiers getting shot in chests they've barely grown hair on; kids who know the sound of bombs before they know lullabies; this whole camp is sickeningly familiar with the sound and the sight and the smell of war! And they know it at Battalion Aid too! But they're not horrified by _that_ anymore! They're horrified by _us_! They're more afraid of men holding _hands_ than holding _guns_ – and I'm telling you, it's fucked! Just not the sort of fucked they care to know about!"

"That is _enough_ , Pierce!"

Frank had finally remembered where his mouth was, and would have almost certainly started shooting it off again, but he was interrupted.

"I don't think I want you plastering my leg."

Hawkeye turned, but held his head high. The soldier met his gaze with eyes that burned with both disgust and defiance. Plaster dripped slowly from Hawkeye's hands.

"Fine."

Before Hawkeye could even wipe his hands, Trapper was gone. Hawkeye listened as his footsteps turned from rotten floorboards to crunching gravel, further and further away. An inhuman bellow. And then a sickening thud. Hawkeye winced.

"Pierce..." Under any other circumstances, Hawkeye might have made note of the sudden softness in Frank's voice. But not now. "Pierce, I think you'd better let me finish up here."

Hawkeye looked at the soldier. "Those two busted legs will get you a free vacation to Tokyo General. Hope you're happy, kid. Maybe we'll end up on the same flight outta Seoul."

And with those words, Doctor Benjamin Franklin Pierce turned away from the last patient he'd ever treat.

 **04:12**

"Are you OK?"

Trapper looked up from his cot. Hawkeye's concerned face – and a makeshift white flag fashioned from his surgical mask, and what appeared to be a twig – was tentatively peeking around the side of the Swamp door.

"I come in peace," Hawkeye continued, with a joviality that didn't quite cover his unease. Once safely inside, he tossed his flag onto the floor. "I heard you going a couple of rounds with the hospital."

Trapper extended his fist. The knuckles were a mess of dried plaster and blood, gently dripping onto the Swamp's dusty floor. "It was the latrine."

"Oh yes, because the location makes all the difference." Hesitation forgotten, Hawkeye strode into the tent, dropped onto Trapper's cot, and grabbed his hand. "Jesus, Trap, I think you've hit a nail. What the hell did you go and do that for?"

Trapper shrugged. "It looks worse than it feels."

"Of course it does! You're tanked up on adrenaline! You couldn't feel a ten ton truck if it hit you in the head! My God, Trapper, of all the stupid…" He trailed off as he stretched Trapper's knuckles, and a trickle of fresh blood oozed out. "You're gonna need a tetanus shot."

He fished under Trapper's cot for the emergency medical kit, wondering if the army would demand it back after the court martial. It was military-issue, after all. Maybe if he could sneak a few crates home before his discharge, he could go into business selling medical supplies in the States… ' _Because I sure as hell won't be a doctor any more. I wonder if the army will let me take a few tongue depressors and hypodermics as severance.'_

Trapper interrupted his reverie. "Why'd ya have to shoot your mouth off like that anyway?"

Hawkeye arose with a needle and vial in hand, and shrugged. "I won't have people talking about us that way." Trapper shifted uncomfortably as Hawkeye set up the tetanus shot. "I won't! Our personal lives are not some… sordid source of amusement for the terminally narrow-minded! We're _people_ – people who got close and… and did the same thing countless other people have done: what Frank and Hotlips do every other night, and Henry and Leslie, and… and we deserve respect."

Trapper grimaced. _'Us… We…'_ It was a funny way Hawkeye had of talking: like they could walk out of the army and into a house with a picket-fence, two kids and a Dalmatian. He winced a little as Hawkeye slid the needle into his arm, and there was silence for a moment. Trapper didn't dare break it.

"There's something going on between Nurse Carter and Nurse Feinberg," Hawkeye said at last.

Trapper pressed his fingers on the spot where Hawkeye's needle had broken the skin. "How'd'ya know? Did ya strike out with 'em or somethin'?"

"I walked in on them." Hawkeye delved into the medical kit again, looking for bandages and rubbing alcohol. "This is going to sting."

"Oh yeah? Doin' what?" He hissed as the alcohol sloshed over his hand.

"Just talking." Hawkeye barely quirked a smile at Trapper's curiosity. "I think they're spooked. I know what an intense conversation looks like, and this one was right in the X-ray room!" Hawkeye dabbed at Trapper's knuckles. "You've heard Margaret give those mandatory lectures... _Spotting Lesbians in the WAC,_ " he intoned in a mock-military voice. They'd snuck in on a few of those lectures, in the days before all this started. Hawkeye had swallowed his fear, laughed at the Major's embarrassed innuendo, and hoped his jokes about lending them some 'training footage' would mask the tightly coiled worry curling in his gut.

Trapper looked at him. "Why're you tellin' me this?"

Hawkeye picked up a fresh bandage. " _Why?_ Trapper, they're worried because of _us_! And now _I'm_ worried about _them_! I'm not completely self-absorbed, and I'm also not keen on double-dating at the court martial!"

Trapper continued to look at him with a puzzled frown. "What are we s'posed to about it?"

"I don't know! Talk to them! Warn them, or something!" Hawkeye gesticulated desperately the direction of the hospital.

"Warn 'em?" Trapper laughed hollowly. "I think we're doin' a pretty good job of that already."

Hawkeye opened his mouth, but whatever argument was about to issue forth was derailed by a knock at the Swamp door, and, an instant later, the arrival of Henry Blake. Hawkeye jumped up from Trapper's cot on reflex, and Henry gamely pretended not to notice as he leaned against the tent pole and tried to remember how to form sentences.

"Evening, boys. Or morning. I can't tell, my eyelids are trying to glue themselves together... McIntyre, what have you done to your hand?"

Trapper glanced at Hawkeye's handiwork.

"Trapper had a fight with the latrine and lost. Come on Henry, spill. You've got that look like there's ants issuing orders in your pants."

Henry shifted awkwardly on his feet. "Well, Radar finally got through to J-Corp. We got the court martial postponed."

"Wonderful. Drinks are on me."

"Yeah… except they've only agreed on a postponement until we stopped operating. Preliminary hearings start at nine o'clock sharp. Then the Colonel's looking to start full court martial proceedings that afternoon, following a legal brief."

"That'll be a very brief brief…" The line fell out of Hawkeye's mouth automatically.

Trapper stared. "Can they do that?"

"Only if the Brass eat their lunch fast enough."

Trapper shot Hawkeye an irritated glare, but deigned not to comment. Hawkeye couldn't handle a crisis without wisecracking, and that wasn't about to change any time soon. "Nine o'clock? Henry, we ain't slept in almost forty-eight hours, an' we've been in surgery for twenty-four o' those! Can't we at least get some sack time before they ricochet us outta this dump?"

"I'm not happy about it either, McIntyre, but all I know is the Colonel is sending a Jeep for you in less than four hours! So maybe look on the bright side: at least it'll all be over soon." He winced. "I didn't mean it like–"

"We know what you meant, Henry. Forget it." Trapper rolled over on his bunk. "D'ya think we can turn in for the night, now? What little there is left of it."

Henry backed out of the room, grateful for the excuse. His footsteps faded away to nothing, and left the camp doused in silence. Not even the crickets were awake yet.

Trapper turned out the light, and flipped over, trying to get comfortable. It wouldn't happen. Henry's words echoed – _'It'll all be over soon.'_

This was it. The end. In a few hours the army would unceremoniously extract him from Korea, and he would return the States in disgrace ** _._** Try to face Louise and the girls after all of this. Try to put Hawkeye behind him. Try to carry on.

The cot creaked, and Hawkeye clambered in beside him. "Hawk, what are you–?"

"Shh." Hawkeye pressed a very soft kiss to Trapper's lips and wrapped his arms around him. And, God help him, Trapper kissed him back, and their arms wrapped around each other like they were clinging to the edge of the world.

He tried desperately to think of Louise as Hawkeye idly ran his fingers across his shoulders. "If you think we're gonna –"

Hawkeye shook his head. "Of course I don't. I just…" His sigh turned into a choke, and Trapper realised he was absolutely not going to get any sleep. "Hold me?"

It was an innocent enough request, but even this felt too intimate. As much as Trapper ached to pull Hawkeye to him and wrap his arms around him and never let go, he couldn't escape the feeling that, if he did that, his heart would break. Instead, his hand was drawn inexplicably to Hawkeye's dog tags as they dangled at his chest, glinting in the moonlight. He wrapped his fingers around them, his thumb tracing over the letters, as if to carve the tactile memory of his name into his mind, as if it were stamped into his very soul. Hawkeye hovered beside him, the hurt and confusion on his face fading to mild amusement at the gesture. Then, his hand went over Trapper's, squeezing tightly, pressing the metal against his palm.

Despite the protests of his rational mind, Trapper gently pulled at the mental chain, drawing Hawkeye closer so he could kiss him. Hawkeye's breath was harsh and uneven. His tears fell onto Trapper's cheeks.

"Trapper?" His voice was little more than a whimper, and the name carried more questions than either one of them could dare to ask. Trapper squeezed tighter. Steel cut into his palm.

He released his hold only when Hawkeye broke the kiss, finding a tag-shaped indentation in his palm. He chuckled slightly, holding his hand up, for Hawkeye to see, but Hawkeye didn't laugh. Instead, his fingers went to trace the mirror image of his name, gently caressing the skin until the letters vanished, and the flesh became smooth again.

"Come on, Hawk," Trapper murmured at last. "Let's get some sleep."

Hawkeye nodded in reply. Trapper nudged him to turn over, and spooned against him, Hawkeye's hair tickling his nose. The slight, skinny body in his arms trembled, until, at last, desperately quiet sobs turned to restless dozing. Trapper lay awake, wrapped around his lover, willing the wounded to come; willed this night to never end. And for the last time, he listened to the sound of absolute silence.

* * *

 _ **Footnote:** Thank you to Sidney (aka the inimitable asinfreedom) for her availability and openness on the philosophies and ethics of Catholicism, which helped to shape Trapper and Mulcahy's conversation into something which we hope is both sympathetic and realistic._


	4. Contemptible

**Seoul, South Korea - September, 1951**

"You're out of order, Pierce!"

Colonel Carmichael was not having a good day. His face had gone an amusing shade of puce.

Hawkeye would have laughed if he wasn't so angry. The court martial was a joke. The 'investigation' over the validity of Frank's report and the nature of Hawkeye's relationship with one Captain John X. McIntyre deteriorated quickly into what could only be described as character assassination. Queries expanded into other areas of his private life; debate over his sexual proclivities slipped into an interrogation over his political alignment; some pen-pusher from some branch of Army Intelligence or another had showed up demanded to know the names of any other 'political and sexual subversives' he happened to be fraternising with. Hawkeye had refused to co-operate, and the three old men tutted disapprovingly while Frank sniffed and sneered and made a lot of noise about patriotism and standing up for what was good, decent and American. By the time they started conflating his 'perversion' with Communist sympathising, Hawkeye's patience had run out.

"You're damned right I'm out of order!" Hawkeye was yelling, on his feet in front of a room full of people, all of whom now knew far more about his private life than he cared to disclose. "You're all out of order! This whole place is out of order!"

"Captain, this conduct is not acceptable!"

"I'll tell you what's not acceptable!" Hawkeye strode up to the Colonel, jabbing a finger accusingly towards him. "You depriving the 4077 of two of its best surgeons because you want to know who I'm sleeping with! And you're calling _me_ a pervert!" As Hawkeye ranted, the MPs began to make their way calmly to the front.

"We want to know," the irate Colonel seethed, "in case you happen to pose a danger to national security!"

"A danger to national security?!" Hawkeye practically howled with laughter. "What do you think I'm gonna do? Defect to North Korea because their boys look better in their uniforms? Cheat on MacArthur with Kim Il-Sung? You're out of your mind!"

"That's it. Pierce, you're in contempt!" Colonel Carmichael slammed his case file closed and banged his gavel. "This circus has gone on for long enough!"

"Hear, hear!" Hawkeye applauded, loudly and solitarily, as rest of the courtroom came to order.

"This hearing will reconvene tomorrow. MPs – I want this man detained." The MPs wasted no time in grabbing the furious Captain Pierce to remove him from the courtroom.

"Yes, call the MPs! Call the guards!" Hawkeye was manic with rage, shouting and bellowing, struggling as he was hauled out to the cells. Trapper could still hear him screaming halfway down the corridor. "Barricade the men's showers! Lock up your sons! The Lavender Menace cannot be contained! We are irrepressible! _We're lovers and we're dangerous_!"

Trapper heard a door bang closed, silencing Hawkeye's voice, and he quietly buried his head in his hands and waited for the rest of the courtroom to file out.

* * *

The holding cells were located in a depressing, grey pre-fab annex behind the offices, and by the time Hawkeye heard the barred door lock behind him with a clang and a rattle, he was already thinking better of his outburst. It was cold and draughty, and his itchy Class A uniform offered little protection against the gusts of cold air currently invading his own personal ten-foot-by-ten-foot corner of hell.

"Have you lost your goddamn marbles?"

He turned on his heel, his heart practically leaping into his mouth. "Trapper?!"

But it was hardly a touching reunion. The look on Trapper's face was one of distinct displeasure. "What were you _thinkin'_ – kickin' off at 'em like that? Like we ain't in enough trouble already! What the hell were you tryin'a pull?"

Hawkeye shrugged. "I don't know, but it made me feel better. How did you get in here anyway?"

A little smile crept onto Trapper's face, despite his apparent concern. "Our CO has hidden talents in the art of bullshit." Trapper nodded to the doorway. Henry seemed engrossed in conversation with the guard. "He probably bought us five minutes – or until they twig who I am. Whichever comes first."

Hawkeye glanced through the bars. Henry was currently employing his hidden talents well: "If you're holding one of my doctors overnight, apparently I need you to sign… whatever these are." He produced a bundle of forms from his jacket. "Oh, boy, there sure are a lot! Normally my company clerk deals with this sort of thing, but his gerbil got sick. You know how it is. If you could… uh… yeah, thanks. That's great! Oh, and I think there's one here too."

The guard reluctantly took the bundle of paperwork, and returned to his station to sit and sign.

Henry approached Hawkeye's cell and sighed wearily. "Well, that was real smart, Pierce."

"What are they gonna do? Kick me out of the army twice? Better hope I bounce."

"No, they're keeping you in for the night and _fining_ you."

Hawkeye frowned and stared at his boots. He was calmer now, kicking at the grubby concrete, reclining against the bars of his own private cell with his hands on his hips and a smirk on his face. He couldn't care less about the money at this stage. "I think it was worth it for the catharsis."

Another sigh from Henry, and he stepped a little closer to the bars, his voice low, tinged with regret. "Well, I think you ought'a know: the Colonel told me he's already made his mind up. I've been ordered to have your stuff packed up and shipped to Seoul by the morning. You're up for sentencing at oh-six-hundred hours tomorrow. There's an early plane leaving Kimpo at seven, and he wants you on it."

Hawkeye shivered. Suddenly, everything felt painfully, undeniably real. He stared over at Trapper, but anything he might say caught in his throat. Every fiber in his being was screaming to gather him up in his arms and never let go, but the bars between them – and the scrutiny of the guard – made such an act impossible.

Trapper merely continued to look at him gravely, his expression somewhere between scowling and mournful. "Congratulations, genius. You get to spend another night in Korea – locked up in a concrete box with Chuckles the Army Cop for company!" Trapper jerked his head towards the MP on guard duty, who was currently doing battle with the paperwork Henry had presented him with.

They stood in silence, the air suddenly still and cold. Henry cleared his throat. "I… uh, I'll be…" He pointed to the guard with his thumb and stepped away, giving them some privacy. "Yo! How are those papers coming along?"

Hawkeye blinked mutely. High on adrenaline, he hadn't noticed anything outside of his own fury and the sound of his own voice. Now, in the cold reality of a military stockade, he realised he was trembling. "So… what are you saying?" He stumbled over the words, feeling strangely numb. "This is goodbye?"

Trapper didn't speak – _couldn't_ speak. He gave a strange shudder, glancing about himself, afraid that any attempt at sentimentality might somehow draw attention and make things worse. ' _Like things could_ get _any worse…'_

"I don't know what to say!" Hawkeye laughed bitterly at the cruelty of it all, painfully aware of the steel bars between them. His voice echoed in the little concrete room. He hoped Trapper might spare him the agony of coming up with something.

Taking the risk, Trapper moved a little closer, his hands coming up and wrapping around bars of the prison cell, tensed and trembling. He would gladly rip the door away from its hinges if he had the strength. "I'm sorry it had to end like this," he managed to articulate at last, his voice shaky.

"I'm sorry it had to end at all."

Hawkeye's words went without a reply. Trapper merely dropped his head and stared at the floor. "I'm s'posed to be up after you," was all he said. "I figure I got about an hour to get my story straight. I ain't too proud to admit I'm terrified."

"I would be, too. I'm a tough act to follow – especially after that finale." Hawkeye managed a thin, watery smile that did little to distract from the glistening in his eyes.

"Shut up, Hawk." Trapper's tone softened the harshness of his words, and there was a look of concern in his eyes. Hawkeye couldn't resist the urge to step closer. His own hands joined Trapper's, wrapping around the bars just below his, barely touching; Hawkeye's thumb rising just a little to stroke the inside of Trapper's wrist. Trapper startled a little, even now – like it would make any difference if anybody saw them – but didn't move. He simply stood, knowing that this was as much as they would ever get in terms of a goodbye. Just the smallest touch, through the bars of a cell, barely noticeable…

" _Hey_!"

… but, apparently, not entirely invisible.

Shoving the paperwork into Henry's hands, the guard leapt to his feet. Henry tried, but failed, to stop him. Trapper and Hawkeye flew apart. Hawkeye barely noticed the guard's words, the accusations and the threats he made as he stormed over, pulling Trapper away from the bars. He was focussed utterly on his lover – his _former_ lover – and the look in his eyes as they were pulled apart. His hands dropped limply to his sides, with nothing to cling to now but memory. "Goodbye, Trapper," Hawkeye heard himself saying, detached, his voice echoing in his head.

He waited for a reply as Trapper stared back, ignoring the guard who was now ordering him to get out. At last, Trapper nodded. "See ya 'round," he said at last.

And then he was gone.

* * *

It was indecently early in the morning when far more subdued Captain Pierce was returned to the courtroom for sentencing.

He had sat in his cell for much of the afternoon and into the evening, wondering how Trapper was doing; how his hearing had gone; how he had coped. When night fell, sleep didn't come easily. An uncomfortable bed – if a thin mattress flung onto cold concrete could be called a bed – and a fretful mind had not made for much sleep, and he was exhausted. He'd lain awake, imagining Trapper sitting on a plane somewhere over the Pacific, moving further and further away with every second.

Above all else, one memory kept needling at him, and, unconsciously, his hand moved to his chest. Through his shirt, he traced the outlines of the small metal plates that rested at his sternum, and then, with slow, almost timid movements, he slipped a button through its hole and pulled the chain out of his shirt. He lay there for hours, clutching his dog tags, recalling how Trapper had clutched them just the same only a few hours before – tight enough to leave a mark in his palm…

He'd cried – more than he cared to admit to. And now, reddened, weary eyes scanned the room as the scant few individuals who were attending his hearing filed in. Frank skulked at the back looking pleased with himself; Henry headed up towards the front.

It didn't come as a surprise that Trapper wasn't there – of _course_ Trapper wasn't there – and yet, he continued to glance about himself in vain hope and anticipation.

Henry observed his hopeful surveillance of the court as he took his own seat in the row behind, and leaned forward with a grave, apologetic look on his face. "He's already gone, Hawk," Henry whispered, leaning forward and resting a comforting hand on Hawkeye's shoulder. "He flew out last night. I'm sorry."

There is was. Confirmation in plain wording. No frills. No ceremony. "I had a feeling he would." Hawkeye tugged uncomfortably at his collar. "I just…" He just what? He felt so foolish, unable to process this simple, inevitable fact. What had he thought was going to happen? What had he expected? The hope that he still clung to made no sense.

Nonetheless, Henry's face softened and a frown crossed his features. "I know, kid." He patted Hawkeye gently on the back.

There was nothing more to be said. It felt… almost criminal. A brief conversation through the bars of a cell, and Trapper was gone? It didn't seem real; didn't seem possible. Great love affairs didn't end like this.

Still numb, and more than a little nauseous, Hawkeye watched as his deciding panel of three officers – judge, jury and executioner, as Hawkeye had labelled them the previous day – filed in with their notes. The stern-faced Colonel Carmichael regarded Hawkeye with a look of contempt and began muttering through the formalities.

Already, Hawkeye was restless. Again, he turned in his seat. "What did they give him, Henry?"

"Undesirable discharge – and a 'not guilty' on Article 125."

"Oh, thank Christ!"

"Yeah, his defence counsellor was pretty hot stuff. Got the whole thing wrapped up in a half hour."

"He actually bothered with all that?" Hawkeye had refused legal aid and chosen to 'defend' himself, which in retrospect was possibly not the best idea. He'd practically put the prosecutor out of a job.

Henry gave him a pointed stare. "Yeah, well, after your soapbox moment yesterday, he got a little worried. Besides, he's got more to lose."

Henry's words felt like a punch to the gut. His outburst was designed to give a little back to the military – not spook Trapper into thinking he was about to lose his freedom. Would Trapper's lasting memory of him paint him as nothing more than the man who nearly got him sentenced to six months of hard labour?

Colonel Carmichael bellowed Hawkeye's name, and he whipped around. "Huh? What?"

"I said," the Colonel enunciated with a tight smile, "would Captain Pierce please stand?"

Hawkeye stood. He refused to respond with the customary 'yes, sir', nor did he particularly stand at attention. Colonel Carmichael didn't seem all that surprised. He didn't even comment.

The Colonel continued in a rather bored tone: "I'll begin with the small issue of your conduct yesterday evening." He cleared his throat and clasped his hands neatly over Hawkeye's case file. "Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce, on the afternoon of September 28th you were removed from this courtroom following an outburst that was both disrespectful of your superiors and unbecoming an officer of the United States Army. This hearing has, after consideration, found you guilty of contempt of court. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Hawkeye stared back in a way that wasn't much more respectful than he had been the day before. He gave a thin smile. "Oh, I'm very sorry about that, Colonel. Very sorry for any disrespect. I've thought very hard about what I said, and I swear I'll never behave in such an _appalling_ way again."

Colonel Carmichael nodded and made a small note in his book. "Thank you, Captain."

"For as long as I'm an officer in the United States Army."

Carmichael twitched. Hawkeye smirked. Carmichael scowled at him. "The sentence," he spat, "is a five hundred dollar fine, _but_ in the interests of streamlining the proceedings here, I have decided to be lenient. You will therefore forfeit your outstanding pay for this month – a sum of three hundred and thirteen dollars and fifty cents. I now consider this matter closed."

Hawkeye practically breathed a sigh of relief as he returned to his seat, draping himself over the back of his chair so he could lean back and talk to Henry. "Oh, well that was nice. Wasn't he nice?"

"Don't bother sitting down, Pierce. I don't plan on dragging this out any longer than is absolutely necessary. You've wasted enough time, and now you've had a night in the cells to cool off, I trust you'll allow us to proceed?"

Standing once more, Hawkeye tried to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Sweat prickled the back of his neck, and the room seemed to tilt in a quite nauseating fashion as he tried to keep his balance. "Please, continue." He forced a smile.

Carmichael cleared his throat and clasped his together in a rather severe manner. "Captain Pierce, you were brought before this military court on a charge of sodomy – a charge which, I'm sure you know, carries a potential sentence under this Special Court-Martial of the United States Army of six months unpaid labour, or three months imprisonment."

"How could I forget?"

"After some consideration, it is the decision of the Court that this charge be dropped. It is my conclusion that, aside from a somewhat… emphatic eye-witness testimony by Major Burns, there is not sufficient evidence to secure a conviction."

"I bet there was!" Frank's irate voice piped up from the back. "You just weren't looking hard enough!"

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. "Oh, knock it off, Frank! What do you think we did – take pictures?"

"Pierce!" Henry's warning was little more than a nervous hiss, but Hawkeye buttoned his lip.

Carmichael eyed him disdainfully. "However, it is more than apparent from the evidence given and from your conduct in this very courtroom that you are, in my opinion, a man of questionable moral principles, and as such, unfit for military duty. Efforts made by a court-appointed psychiatrist to assess your mental condition were met with fierce resistance and contempt…"

"I don't answer to any psychiatrist that isn't Sidney Freedman."

"… and you are, by your own admission, a homosexual."

"Hey, wait – I never said that!"

The Colonel sighed and flipped through his notes. "Captain Pierce, under questioning yesterday, when you were asked if you engage in sexual relations with other men, you responded 'never on a first date'. It seems to me that you are not only blatant in your sexual deviancy, but also failing to take this military proceeding seriously."

Hawkeye sighed. His anger welled up again, only less fierce. He was exhausted with procedure, worn out with questioning, deprived of sleep, starved of food, and emotionally drained. What little spark was left felt like defeatism rather than contempt, but he couldn't just stay silent. He gave an elaborate, dramatic shrug of disdain. "Well, what do you expect? I know as well as you do that you'd made your minds up about me before I'd even walked in the damned room. The only reason you didn't toss me out with a discharge at the pre-hearing was because Frank was determined to see me breaking rocks in Leavenworth. So how about we stop wasting each other's time and cut to the ceremonial slaughtering of my promising career in medicine on the Grand High Altar of the Great God Conformity, patron deity of the United States Church of McCarthy?"

As Hawkeye stood there, he thought he saw something approaching regret flicker across the Colonel's face. But, whatever it was – if indeed he had seen anything at all – vanished soon enough, as he picked his gavel up from the desk. "Very well." He sighed and squared his jaw, looking every inch the stern, disapproving Army officer. "It is the decision of this court that Captain Pierce be discharged from the United States Army, due to his being an undesirable candidate for Military service. Sentence to be carried out with immediate effect, followed immediately by removal to United States soil at earliest convenience – _if not sooner_. Case closed." The gavel landed with an almost understated little rap of wood on wood. "Captain Pierce, would you please stand front and centre and face the court?"

It wasn't a request.

Hawkeye felt numb. He stepped up to the front of the court and turned to face the tiny assembled crowd. He couldn't look a single one of them in the eye. Not even Henry, who looked more apologetic than admonishing. Hawkeye heard the Colonel address a fellow member of the panel, and a moment later, a severe-looking Major with pinched features and steel spectacles stepped in front of Hawkeye, and began reciting some painfully formal discharge script.

Hawkeye tried his best to blank him out. He wasn't interested in hearing the elaborate pomp and ceremony by which he was about to be condemned to lifelong unemployability. He focused his gaze on the back wall of the little wooden courtroom, and found himself wishing he'd just played along and got this over and done with the day before. At least then Trapper would have been here. At least he'd have had a friendly face to focus on.

He was vaguely aware of his rank and insignia being plucked from his uniform. He hadn't expected that to sting so, but then he couldn't help but notice that this whole debacle was designed to humiliate him. They didn't call it a 'degradation' for nothing, and somehow the thought actually made him steel himself in an attempt to stand strong in the face of it all.

Except he didn't feel strong. When the ritual was completed and punctuated with a sneering "good riddance!" from Frank, Hawkeye's knee-jerk "shut up, Frank" lacked his usual bite.

The officer who had just relieved him of his commission gestured to him to sit down.

"Do I have to salute?" Hawkeye heard himself asking in a somewhat uncharacteristic display of subordination.

The bespectacled Major's thin mouth twitched into something of a smile, and Hawkeye realised that he'd actually taken pleasure in this. "Civilians don't salute, _Doctor_."

The comment – clearly meant to be scathing – was actually quite liberating. It was all over – like a Band-Aid being torn from an old wound. He was free. Hawkeye slipped back to his seat. "I think he just tried to insult me," he muttered to Henry. "That's cute."

Colonel Carmichael glared at him but made no further comment. "Arrangements have been made for Doctor Pierce's removal to US soil forthwith, travel papers to be issued _immediately_. This court is now closed."

Another tap of the gavel, and a moment later both the overseers and the spectators to Hawkeye's downfall began to file out. Frank was gossiping excitedly to the court clerk about how he wanted transcripts for his personal journal, and Hawkeye tried to convince himself that having this experience documented for posterity by none other than Frank Burns didn't make him more than a little uneasy.

Outside, the corridor seemed unusually crowded as numerous J-Corps personnel pushed past them. Henry stuck close by, not speaking, but lingering, his presence a strange source of comfort.

As he was led away, Hawkeye turned and scanned the crowd on reflex. His heart leapt at the sight of the back of a curly head of blonde hair – and then, just as suddenly, he remembered.

"He's _gone_ , Hawkeye." Henry said flatly, once more reading Hawkeye like a book.

Hawkeye's face fell. "Yeah… yeah, I know." Suddenly, he felt sick all over again, and, with a heavy heart, Henry Blake led the former Captain Pierce out towards the exit. Hawkeye followed, strangely docile.

* * *

They sat, for a short while, atop Hawkeye's footlocker as they waited for his assigned Jeep. Hawkeye turned his discharge papers over and over in his hand. It all seemed so… pragmatic. Plain, unembellished upper case script read: ' _Undesirable discharge from the Armed Forces of the United States of America. This is to certify that Benjamin Franklin Pierce, 19905607, AMEDD, was discharged from the United States Army on the 29_ _th_ _day of September 1951 as undesirable_.' His name and serial number were just typed onto a line in the middle of the page. A further page gave all the delightful details of his transgressions in black and white.

"It's not even blue," he thought aloud, half joking. "Did they run out of blue paper in World War Two?" Henry didn't reply, and Hawkeye got an awful sinking feeling. He nudged the Colonel playfully with an elbow. "Oh, come on. Don't be that way. I've lost too many friends over this. Don't send me home with your disappointment hanging over my head, too."

Henry sighed and looked up. "Hawkeye…" Henry addressed him using his nickname, and it didn't sound quite right. Hawkeye shivered. It was an unusually warm morning, and they were sitting in the dusty parking lot out the back of a US Army prefab admin block in the outskirts of Seoul, and Hawkeye knew that the reason he felt so unpleasantly cold had nothing to do with the weather. Henry continued: "I want to make it absolutely clear to you. I'm not disappointed you're a fairy. I'm disappointed that you got caught."

Hawkeye actually laughed. It felt good to laugh. It felt good to actually be open with someone, and suddenly he wished that he'd confided in Henry sooner. "I'll be sure to tuck my wings into my shirt in future."

"Yeah, well you'd better, because there'll be consequences once you get back, kiddo. This isn't going to be the last you'll hear of this."

"Yeah, I know." Hawkeye couldn't quite get his head around it. He'd heard this time and time again over the past few days, and yet… a civilian life where one piece of paper outweighed a decade of medical training and experience was quite beyond his mental grasp. "But look on the bright side – maybe now the Army can send you a chief surgeon who actually listens to you; someone who salutes and says 'yes, sir' and who actually turns up for reveille with his boots on – not to mention the rest of his uniform; someone who doesn't go through your liquor cabinet during personnel meetings."

"Very funny, Pierce."

"Do me a favour though, Henry? Hmm? Look after everyone for me? I cared about a lot of those people – even though, as it turns out, a lot of them didn't care about me a much as I'd thought. But they're a good bunch. So, you take care of them, and while you're at it, take care of yourself. I expect to see a postcard from Bloomington, Illinois in my mailbox someday soon, you hear?"

Henry didn't reply. He stared thoughtfully into the middle distance for a while, his brow creased in thought. At last, he turned, looking at Hawkeye with concern knitted across his features. At last, he spoke: "You went through my liquor cabinet?"

Hawkeye grinned. He was spared further questioning as a Jeep pulled up beside them, and the sergeant behind the wheel barked his name from a clipboard.

"That'll be my cab."

They loaded Hawkeye's belongings together, as the sergeant refused to help him once he'd seen his papers. Hawkeye was then banned from the front seat and forced to crouch in the back with his luggage. He folded himself awkwardly into the small gap, and Henry shook his hand over the top of the duffel bag.

"Try and stay out of trouble, kid," Henry warned him.

"I'll try – and no doubt fail spectacularly."

Henry smiled. "Abyssinia."

Hawkeye responded with a smile of his own – a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Abyssinia, Henry."

The Jeep lurched forward. Hawkeye grabbed the back of the seat to hang on for dear life, and Henry disappeared into the dust.

* * *

 ** _Chapter notes_ : **_Once again, thank you to my former RP buddy, George, for the suggestion of using a line from the book in this chapter. 'We're lovers and we're dangerous' is used by Hawkeye in the book (under somewhat different circumstances) and George recommended that he utter it here. The idea stuck. :)_

 _Also many thanks to all our readers for the amazing discussions we've been having via Tumblr and other platforms. It's always fantastic to hear your thoughts, so please do feel free to get in touch with us. Quite a short update tonight in comparison to Cap's epic instalment last week, but a highly eventful one in its own way. Enjoy!_


	5. Fight or Flight

**Tachikawa U.S. Air Base, Tokyo - September, 1951**

The plane hit the runway in Tokyo, and Hawkeye only noticed that he'd been asleep when his body slammed forward and there was a stab of pain in his middle as the seatbelt pulled tight across his lower abdomen. There was a screech of tyres, and they began to rumble to a standstill, shaking him a little in his seat. His fingernails dug into the armrest. He hated flying: the claustrophobic tension of being trapped in a cramped, aluminium cigar tube several thousand feet above the ocean was just about bearable, but the buffeting and noise during take-off, landing, or turbulence was just enough to push him squarely into his discomfort zone. At last, the aircraft came to a halt.

The journey had been less than pleasant so far: the driver had refused to help Hawkeye with his footlocker, and so, with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he had been forced to drag the heavy thing across the airfield himself. The clerk in the M.A.T.S office seemed more than a little irritated by his late arrival, as the plane was due to depart any minute.

"Where the hell were you?" he'd demanded, glowering at the sweaty, dishevelled doctor in the grubby Class As and jabbing at the departure board with an accusing finger. "It says seven o'clock!"

Hawkeye had smiled as he'd presented his papers. "I'm sorry, I'd have thrown myself out sooner, but the army wanted a second opinion."

The joke didn't work. The clerk scowled at him and thrust his papers back towards him like they were poisoned. "Out on the runway."

"Can I get some help with–?"

" _Out_!"

Now safely (more or less) ensconced in Tokyo, a fraction more help was forthcoming. His footlocker was transferred over to his connecting plane, and Hawkeye was requested to check himself in for the flight to Travis, San Francisco.

It was strange – in any other circumstance, he'd be excited. He'd dreamed of going home for months. He'd be reaching Boston just as the leaves were about to start turning, and he always loved that time of year. For months he had planned on getting a train to Maine as soon as he hit home turf. He'd see his father, his friends… Now, the future was uncertain. He hadn't even told his father to expect him home. How could he? The idea of returning to Crabapple Cove with a soiled record and a less-than-honourable discharge turned his stomach. He couldn't even think about it! His mind was fogged, swimming with countless possibilities, and none of them good. He trudged on as if on auto-pilot, staggering through the plane, through the plane, his duffel bag weighing him down at one shoulder.

Even Tokyo felt strange and hostile. He had wandered through Tachikawa Airfield on various occasions, and in various states of intoxication. The vibrant, bustling city beyond the chain link fences had become his and Trapper's favourite (well, only) real sanctuary against the horrors of war. Drinking in Rosie's bar and necking in the supply closet was a pleasant enough way to pass the time, but only once they were safely out of Korea did they ever really feel they could relax. Here, life was normal, or as close to it as they could get. The last time they were here, they'd been booked two rooms for their three-day period of leave. They'd only used one.

He would have given anything to have Trapper by his side for this journey.

The office and waiting room at Tachikawa was small and inconspicuous – almost civilian, save for the army crest on the wall. It reminded Hawkeye of numerous bus stations in the States. Rows of uncomfortable benches lined up facing a desk, where a clerk was processing travel papers with flourished efficiency. He bellowed an announcement for a flight to Seoul, and the majority of the waiting passengers stood and began to make their way to their plane, bound for Korea.

' _Poor buggers…'_

Hawkeye approached the desk warily, like a child sent to the principal's office clutching a 'bad behaviour' note. The clerk smiled at him. "What can I do for you?" His accent was as broad as his smile – Brooklyn, Hawkeye placed – and he seemed friendly. It felt almost criminal to ruin their pleasant rapport…

"Uh… checking in. Pierce, Benjamin Franklin. Flight for San Francisco."

The clerk beamed. "Hey, goin' home, huh? You lucky, _lucky_ devil! Lemme see… Pierce… Okay, gotcha. Looks like you're gonna be outta here in less than an hour. Now if you wouldn't mind showin' me your papers, an' then you can just take a…"

He glanced over Hawkeye's papers. The smile vanished from his face, and Hawkeye got a distinct sinking feeling in his stomach.

His paper were handed back, minus the earlier smile. "Go sit over there." The clerk pointed to the far corner of the waiting area, his friendliness gone without a trace.

Hawkeye sat. Alone.

The wait dragged on. He tried in vain to focus on a magazine article, but his heart wasn't in it and his eyes weren't awake. Instead, he sat in silence, toying with his army cap. Other soldiers began to file in, also bound for San Francisco. From his corner, Hawkeye watched as each of them approached the desk, showed their papers, and were directed towards the opposite side of the room, away from Hawkeye. A gentle, warm chatter began to rise, but still, Hawkeye sat alone, a silent pariah in a room full of excited, cheerful activity.

He held back when the flight was called, not wanting to mingle with the strangers on his flight who were already bonding in preparation for the several hours of forced proximity that lay ahead. Instead, he brought up the rear as they snaked out onto the tarmac in a disorderly line.

The seating on the plane was limited, as half of it had been given over to mailbags and parcels being shipped back to the States. The seats were arranged in pairs, too small and too close together. Hawkeye shuddered; the cramped space was bad enough, but the proximity of so many unknown people was making him twitchy. It wasn't like him to be nervous in a room full of strangers, but this particular group of strangers felt more like enemies he hadn't met yet. The past week, with its disturbingly high quota of confrontations with even the most unlikely of people, had taken its toll, and he was suddenly cautious. If he were to get himself into an altercation here, there would be no way of making a dignified exit.

The flight officer in charge of the cabin glanced over Hawkeye's papers, then folded them briskly in two and handed them back to him without a word, gesturing to him to take a seat. But he hesitated in the aisle until duffel bags had been stowed, and bodies seated in their cramped, uncomfortable spaces. At last single pair of seats remained unoccupied right at the front of the cabin. Hawkeye breathed a sigh of relief. He made a beeline for the front.

He was just settling himself into the corner, nice and inconspicuous, with his duffel bag on the empty seat beside him, when there was a kerfuffle near the back.

A large, burly man was hauling both himself and his copious bags up the steps, and getting into an argument with the flight officer.

' _So much for getting some space for myself…_ ' Hawkeye rolled his eyes and shunted his duffel bag off the now-not-so-spare seat. The big guy and the flight officer exchanged a few words – hesitant and polite in the case of the latter, while the former bellowed and insisted – and, after reaching a begrudging agreement, he began to make his way to the one available seat in the cabin.

The one next to Hawkeye.

"Thought I was gonna miss the flight!" the man announced to everyone in general, and Hawkeye in particular.

"Well, we wouldn't have wanted that." Hawkeye managed a weak smile and moved over a little so his new neighbour could heave his muscular bulk into the seat beside him. He was as broad as the seat, and then some. A large bicep invaded Hawkeye's already rather limited space, and a grinning face turned to smirk at him.

The man chewed on a piece of gum, making vulgar smacking sounds as he spoke. "Vince Studebaker – y'know, like the auto company." He held out his hand. "Formerly _Sergeant_ Studebaker, but we're all _civilians_ now, ain't we, boys?"

He raised his voice, and the cabin responded with cheers and whoops of delight. Hawkeye smiled tersely.

"Didn't have time to check in with the MATS office, and fly-boy back there got all snippy. Seems to forget he's a glorified stewardess." Vince tossed his head back in the direction of the flight officer, who was now hastily amending the flight roster he'd been handed by the MATS office, and probably hoping he didn't get pulled up for doing so.

Hawkeye glanced back at the young air force man, feeling a pang of sympathy. "Well, you know. The army loves its paperwork."

"It ain't even my fault! I got called up for one last job – on the day I'm s'posed to fly out!"

"Couldn't you just… offer to toss a few grenades out the window as we fly over North Korea?"

Vince laughed a little too loudly at that, and clapped Hawkeye on the shoulder hard enough to shake a few of his fillings loose. "I _like_ you. Nah, I ain't in combat. I drive ambulances for the evac hospitals. I got these muscles hauling stretchers around all day! Boy, is my Mrs in for a shock when I get back lookin' like this!"

"Oh…" Hawkeye could think of nothing else to say. There was a time when he could have made conversation with another medical man, but the topic felt empty and joyless.

But Vince carried on regardless, addressing the cabin at large, seeking out a more responsive audience to whom he could hold court. "So I'm shipping out this morning, got my bag all packed, and the hospital call, and ask me to head to the airport first thing to pick a patient up for a transfer, drive him to Tokyo General, and then I had to get him checked in on his ward, drop off the truck, and take a cab back to the airport again! I haven't even had a damned cup of coffee!"

Hawkeye frowned and tried to get comfy in his limited space. "Must be terrible for you…"

Another friendly slap, and Hawkeye flinched. "It wasn't so bad. The guy I was driving was okay. Kept me entertained. Told me a real funny story!"

The passengers in the seats across the aisle were listening in now, sensing there would be more to follow.

Noting their interest, Vince turned away from Hawkeye to converse with them. "So I pick this Marine up from the airport – poor guy's got two busted legs…"

Hawkeye felt a cold stab of dread. ' _Oh, you've gotta be kidding me_ …' Surely the world couldn't be this cruel. Surely, out of all the planes in the East-Asian war theatre…

"Just got fixed up by these two weird doctors – kinda kooky. You know the type… And you'll never guess what happened!"

Trying to shut out the nausea churning in his gut, Hawkeye turned away and stared out of the window as the ground crew set up for take-off. The engines began to roar, and he tried to focus on their drone rather than the voice of the man beside him. It seemed his run as the prime entertainment throughout Korea wasn't quite over. Only this time, he wasn't about to voice a protest. He couldn't even bear to listen. He had a good enough idea how this story went, and wasn't particularly interested in hearing it replayed for the amusement of any further witnesses. Instead, he watched the personnel on the ground signal to one another, and the wing flaps on the plane flick up and down as the pilot readied the plane. The plane lurched into motion, and Hawkeye's stomach lurched too.

Vince was still talking. Somewhere through the haze of mental exhaustion and deliberate attempts to drown him out, Hawkeye caught the tail end of the story: "And the first guy goes absolutely crazy! He's screaming: " _Don't you dare gossip about my personal life!_ " And the other guy just _loses it_! He's smashing the place up, punching walls, breaking stuff…"

Hawkeye gave a derisive snort at the creative exaggeration at work. His response went unnoticed, presumably mistaken for laughter.

"… and then he storms out. The first guy – he starts _crying_ and just… runs off after him!"

Feeling his face flush, Hawkeye turned away again, hoping he wasn't visibly shaking. He didn't have it within himself to defend himself, nor make any corrections to the twisted story he'd just heard. He just pressed himself against the window and tried to make himself as small as possible. He'd had just about as much as he could take. All his fight was gone, and only a quiet, exhausted despair remained.

Across the aisle, more of the passengers continued to gossip, and Hawkeye tried to disappear into the fuselage, trying to ignore that feeling that somebody was sucking all the air out of the cabin.

"You know, I'm not even surprised. Some of those draftee doctors are mighty weird if you ask me."

"I heard a rumour half the guys in the medical branch are either queers or drunks."

There was a ripple of laughter and chatter around the tiny cabin, and Hawkeye pressed himself ever-tighter into his little corner. His salvation appeared in the form Flight Officer – a guardian angel in air force blue, complete with wings – and Hawkeye hoped that the distraction of the pre-flight register might spare him further humiliation. The officer began, with limited success, to go through the emergency procedures and take a final flight manifesto. His passengers, for the most part, paid him little attention.

One soldier prodded Vince in the shoulder with an unlit cigar. "Hey, I can believe that! I took some shrapnel a couple of months ago, ended up in a MASH unit, and there was this doctor out there – _real_ flirty with everybody. Probably thought he was bein' _funny_ or somethin'. Gave me the creeps."

"You'd think with all those nurses runnin' around, they'd have enough skirt to keep 'em going!" Raucous laughter and appreciative comments regarding the female medical personnel fluttered around the cabin.

"Yeah, there's more broads in those hospitals that there are in all the bars in Seoul!"

"Maybe it's all the disinfectant – or that sleepin' gas they use to put you under. Maybe it makes 'em go funny."

"This guy was _real_ funny, lemme tell ya…" The soldier prepared to launch into his story, lighting his cigar.

This, however, drew the attention of the flight officer: "No smoking until _after_ take-off!"

The soldier scowled. "Blow me."

In response to this, the flight officer confiscated the cigar, and returned, without further comment, to his flight roster. "Hollins."

The now-cigarless Hollins rose his hand with a despondent reply: "Yo." Sulking, he gave Vince another nudge. "This Marine didn't happen to catch the guy's name, did he?"

"Oh Jeez, I don't know! I think he might have mentioned it. Peterson… Pearson… something like that."

"Wasn't _Pierce_ , was it?"

" _Yes_! Pierce! That's the guy!"

"Holy shit – _that_ was the doctor!"

"You're kidding me!"

"As I live and breathe – surgeon up at the 4077th. Proper whack-job if you ask me."

"Pierce?"

Suddenly, the conversation ceased.

"Pierce, Benjamin Franklin?"

Hawkeye blinked. The cabin was quiet. The chatter had died down, and in its place there was a hideous silence that crackled like white noise with nervous energy. "What?"

He hadn't realised that his name was being spoken not by one of the gossiping passengers, but by the flight officer. Now he knew – and he also knew why every head in the cabin had turned to face him. Hollins was suddenly scrutinising him from across the aisle, a look of displeased recognition in his angry, narrowed eyes. A moment later, the Flight Officer put two and two together as well, and, with a flourish, tucked his clipboard under his arm and gestured to Hawkeye. "I'm so sorry, I'm going to have to ask you to move to the rear of the cabin right away."

Before Hawkeye could even register what was happening, the air force man had snatched up his duffel bag and was indicating down the aisle towards the back of the plane, where the mail bags were being stored. All eyes were on him now, and, under their accusing gaze, Hawkeye could feel his face flushing. Blood rushed in his ears as he took his bag and began to make his way back through the cabin. He couldn't quite stand upright in the confines of the aircraft, and he was forced to stoop, his eyes downcast. And, this time, it suited his mood. For once in his life, he didn't feel like striding out with his head high; he didn't have a witty retort for these people; he was beaten, utterly bereft of fighting spirit, chewed up and spat out; his spirit broken, not by threats of violence or vicious slurs or accusations of perversion, but by the light-hearted, playful gossip of strangers.

Behind him, he heard the name "Studebaker," being called, and Vince gave a gruff reply as he spread out into the now empty space recently vacated by one Doctor Benjamin Franklin Pierce.

The plane bumped and bounced as it accelerated down the runway, and Hawkeye struggled to keep his balance as he was buffeted this way and that. At last, safely hidden behind the curtain that separated the cabins, he shrugged his bag off his shoulder and onto the floor. There were few creature comforts in this part of the plane – all the chairs and much of the floor were occupied with mail bags – and the only places to sit were in the crew station. Here, at the front, there were just a couple of fold-down seats bolted to the walls, with seatbelts dangling above them, rattling as the plane rumbled along the tarmac, and Hawkeye didn't much like the idea of spending the entire flight in one of those.

"Nice!" He grimaced, kicking his bag into a corner. Not only had he been quarantined in the waiting room, but now he'd been sent to sit at the back of the plane with the cargo.

The curtain was whisked back, and the flight officer emerged, looking flustered. "I'm so sorry!"

Hawkeye shot him a glare. "Is this _policy_? Shove me in with the cargo so I don't _contaminate_ the other passengers?"

"If I'd been paying attention, I _never_ would have read your name out! I never meant to draw attention like that!"

"My… What?" Hawkeye stopped, stumbling over his words, and he realised that he'd read this situation utterly wrong. "Oh… _oh_!"

"Please, I need you to sit down."

Still dazed, Hawkeye was lead over to one of the seats, gently settled and strapped in, strangely conscious of the man's hand on his arm. Somehow, that simple touch felt so very meaningful, and he gradually began to piece together that had just happened. The flight officer knew – and he was _protecting_ him. This was somebody who understood; somebody who _wasn't_ treating him like a leper.

His heart soared a little, and his new-found companion seated himself opposite. A few seconds later, the plane left the runway, and Hawkeye's body responded in its usual unfavourable way to the sensation of rising rapidly off the face of the earth. His stomach lurched, his palms sweated, and his fingers gripped the edge of his seat tightly. He pressed his head back against the wall, hard enough to hurt.

Eyeing him with a look of concern, the flight officer frowned. "Do you get air sick?" he asked gently. "Do you want me to get you a bag?"

Hawkeye shook his head. "No, thanks. I could breathe into it, I guess, but only if I could stop my hands from shaking."

The plane climbed higher, its motion becoming smoother, the noise more bearable. Hawkeye found himself relaxing a little, his fingers releasing the edge of the seat and unlocking themselves. His thoughts were scattered and confused, but his gaze found its way to the window diagonally opposite, and he stared, breathing deeply, as Tokyo grew smaller and smaller. Houses shrank to matchboxes, people to ants, and, as the plane crept higher, he was struck by a sense of finality he hadn't quite been able to process when he'd flown out from Seoul: He would never see this corner of the world again. The events which had transpired here would undoubtedly shape his life in ways he couldn't even begin to contemplate, and yet, as the city scape began to blur into a collage of indistinguishable coastlines and land masses, the minutiae of the traumatic past few days ceased to matter. The lost friendships, the judgemental looks, the harsh words – all of them, he could leave behind. Frank Burns could rot forever in Uijeongbu for all Hawkeye cared. He'd never had to see him again. It was like Trapper had said…

Trapper.

Suddenly, the thought hit him like a punch to the gut. Trapper was gone, and all he had now were his memories. He glanced, hesitantly, at the flight officer sitting opposite him.

The man shot him a small, warm smile. "You feeling okay?"

The question took Hawkeye by surprise, but he nodded, then leaned forward, raising his voice as much as he dared. "Were you working on a flight like this one last night? This route? Tokyo to San Francisco?"

"No… No, I wasn't working yesterday. Sorry. Why do you ask?"

Hawkeye shook his head. "No reason."

A nod, and another friendly smile. "I'm Stanley, by the way."

"Hawkeye."

"Sorry for the way I bundled you in here just now. I could just see those guys getting rowdy, and I… well, I couldn't just let them have at you."

Hawkeye breathed a sigh of relief, almost overwhelmed that someone had shown him a kindness after these past few days. "I appreciate it."

Stanley had the most intense gaze – pale, grey-green eyes that barely blinked. He could almost be described as intimidating, were it not for the ever-present, lopsided smile. "You look exhausted," he said.

As if Stanley's words had served to remind him how tired he really was, Hawkeye suddenly felt weighed down by exhaustion, his body sinking heavily into his seat, his arms hanging limply. "I think I've been running on empty for three days now."

"I can tell." Those intensely pale eyes seemed to study his face for a moment. "You spent last night in a cell, I'm guessing."

"How could you tell? Is it my carefully dishevelled hair? The designer creases in my uniform? The three-day-old cultivation of stubble on what passes for my face?"

Stanley laughed and shook his head. "Look, once we level out, I'll get you a pillow and a blanket. You can stretch out in here and get some sleep – I won't mind."

Hawkeye stared at the floor. "I don't know. No offence, but I've seen foxholes that looked more comfortable."

"It's not so bad – especially if you curl up in the mail sacks!"

Laughing, Hawkeye eyed the heap of letters and parcels that took up most of the space. "Are you serious?"

"I fly long-haul a lot in these crates. I ought to know." Stanley shot him a broad smile. "Trust me." And, for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, Hawkeye did.

* * *

Stanley was right: the mail sacks _were_ comfortable. With the addition of a blanket and a pillow, Hawkeye made himself a cosy nest and slept soundly for several hours. He was gently shaken awake when they began their descent into Guam for refuelling, and returned to his seat. He didn't move from it for the time they were stationary – to do so would risk throwing him into the firing line of his fellow passengers – and he was content enough to stay put. He was too exhausted to feel bored anyhow, and soon enough, they were in the air again. As they soared high above the Pacific, bound for San Francisco, Hawkeye began to shake off his sleepiness. Stanley, it turned out, didn't have too much to do on these flights except for organising his rambunctious passengers, and now they were underway once more, he shared a root beer out of his pack – "Non-alcoholic, I assure you!" – and tossed Hawkeye a candy bar.

Hawkeye raised his bottle. "You don't happen to have anything stronger in there, do you?"

Stanley chuckled, and they ate and drank together. The sugar perked Hawkeye up a little more, and, soon enough, he began to feel like himself again.

"I needed that," he said by a way of thanks, draining his bottle.

"I bet." Stanley chewed thoughtfully on a Hershey's caramel. He sat in silence for a moment, as if debating whether to take the conversation further. "What did they give you? Dishonourable or undesirable?"

Hawkeye blinked at him. It felt strange, discussing this with a perfect stranger. "The second one."

"Ah."

"Could have been worse, I guess." He was talking about it like it was all over. He knew deep down that this was just the beginning – that the court martial had just been the wound, and he would bear the scars forever – but it was a pleasant delusion to imagine that the worst was behind him. "Some people might say I got lucky."

Stanley nodded and raised his eyebrows. Looking away for a moment, he paused for a moment, as if debating whether to share his thoughts. In the end, he did: "Some people might say there's not much of a damned difference." Hawkeye's stomach lurched a little at that. His discomfort must have registered, as Stanley frowned. "Sorry. You probably don't need me running my mouth."

Hawkeye thought on that for a moment, worrying at his lower lip. He decided to bite the bullet. "You sound like you know a little about these things."

"I make it my business to get to grips with… relevant information." There was a pregnant pause, and Stanley's eyes flickered in the direction of the closed curtain, and the crowded cabin beyond. He dropped his voice a little. "Look, the short version is this: you're basically holding a blue discharge there. Now, it might not have a felony attached to it, but when your boss sees it, or if anybody in the civilian world sees it, they know it probably only means one thing."

His mind reeling, Hawkeye tried to piece together a future where his sexuality was stamped permanently on his record. How could he possibly explain this to his employers? His _father_ …?

"Did I hear those guys say you were a doctor?"

Hawkeye swallowed, feeling suddenly nauseous. "Surgeon."

"Aw, Jeez…" His tone was sincere and sympathetic, but this conversation wasn't helping. Noticing Hawkeye's discomfort, Stanley changed the subject, leaning forward and patting Hawkeye's knee. "Hey, hey! Let's not go down that road now, huh? I don't wanna drag you down." Another pat on the knee. "Hey?"

Hawkeye looked up.

Stanley beamed at him. "What was he like?"

He was sure the question wasn't meant to sound lascivious, but the man's intense gaze and rascally grin gave the question something of a suggestive edge, and Hawkeye couldn't help but cackle with laughter.

Blissfully ignorant to the sound of his relatively innocuous question, Stanley continued to smile. "Well?"

Hawkeye laughed again and shook his head. "What _exactly_ are you asking me?"

Now it was Stanley's turn to laugh. "I didn't mean like _that_! I just meant…" He flushed a little and trailed off, realising their raucous laughter might attract attention. He cast another courtesy glance towards the curtain, and then, satisfied that they were still alone, continued in a hushed tone: "What I mean is that anybody who decides to…" He paused, considering his phrasing, and dropped his voice a fraction more. "We all know what the risks are, so when we weigh it all up and decide to go with somebody… well, he's gotta be somebody pretty special. Right?"

His words seemed to resonate within Hawkeye's soul, and now, in spite of everything, a smile crept across his face. "Right…"

"So…?"

Hawkeye dropped his gaze, studying the floor. 'Special' didn't do Trapper justice, but it the absence of a word that did, Hawkeye nodded. "He was."

"Tell me…"

Stanley's voice was barely more than a whisper. There was a youthful glee about him, eager for a daring story of forbidden love, and suddenly he seemed worlds away from the flustered pen-pusher Hawkeye had taken him for when he had first boarded. Hawkeye laughed at the absurdity of it all. "You're serious! With two dozen over-developed lugs just a few feet away, separated only by a very poor excuse for interior textiles, are we really going to sit here and talk about _guys_?"

"No." Stanley shook his head. Suddenly, his voice was firmer, his expression more steely, but his eyes glistened as he spoke. "You're gonna tell me about _your_ guy, because before you get back on home soil – before you start to deal with all the _crap_ that damned discharge is gonna bring down on you – I want you to remember the good times. I want you to think about everything you shared, everything you did, everything you went through together, how you felt, and how he made you feel… and I want you to tell me he was worth it."

Hawkeye was speechless. There was something alarmingly intense, almost forceful, in Stanley's tone, but the tears in his eyes as he spoke softened his meaning. He noticed only now that Stanley was grasping his hand. Nodding, Hawkeye sniffed. "Okay…"

"Who was he?" The question was a whisper, barely louder than the hum of the engines.

Swallowing, Hawkeye began. "My bunkie. My best friend. He was…" Pausing, he wiped a tear from his eye, then laid his own hand on top of Stanley's. "He made it bearable, you know what I mean?"

Stanley nodded. "I do."

* * *

It was daylight in San Francisco. Exactly which part of which day remained to be seen, but Hawkeye figured he'd have time to work that out somewhere between here and his onward flight.

Stanley ushered the rest of the passengers out onto the tarmac, and, at last, Hawkeye pulled the curtain back and found himself faced with an empty cabin. He felt refreshed. Despite his initial hesitancy, Stanley's insistence on storytelling had left him with a pleasantly warm glow of romance in his heart and a smile on his face. He'd relived several dates, multiple evenings in the O.C. and one or two of their more risqué encounters, and it felt _good_ to share them with someone. Now he stepped out into the cabin, and his companion shook his hand.

It really wasn't enough to show his gratitude. Hawkeye glanced about himself for a moment, then pulled the man into a hug. Stanley made a surprised "Oof!" sound as he was pulled into Hawkeye's arms, but didn't seem to object.

"I just realised," Hawkeye declared as they stepped apart, Stanley adjusting his cap, "I never answered your question."

"You didn't?"

Hawkeye took a deep breath, leaned closer, and whispered the words he hadn't truly felt until just now. "He was worth it."

Stanley smiled. The words seemed to have more of an effect that Hawkeye had anticipated. His face creased, and he nodded, ducking his head.

Hawkeye observed his reaction unfazed. He'd learned to recognise Stanley's emotional moments over their brief time as airplane buddies. The young air force man may be keeping a lot of secrets in his life, but he wore his heart on his sleeve, and Hawkeye wasn't stupid. It had taken him a long flight and a long conversation, but somewhere over the Pacific he'd untangled the traumatised human being sitting beside him. He raised a hand and tilted the peak of Stanley's cap upwards. "Hey."

Glancing up, Stanley managed a weak smile.

"Who was he?"

Stanley's eyes darted over to the doorway, lingering on the San Francisco skyline. "His name was Roger."

Hawkeye gave his tearful companion one last hug. He would never know the details of what happened to Roger, nor would he find out how Stanley had escaped the same fate. There simply wasn't time for the conversation, but Hawkeye hoped that, somehow, the sense of solidarity that has passed between them had brought this sweet, kindly man some comfort or closure. Slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder once more, Hawkeye stepped out of the plane, down the steps, and onto American soil.


	6. In All Kinds of Weather

**Chapter Notes:** _This chapter features an unnamed special mystery guest - see if you can't guess who it is. :)_

* * *

 **San Francisco - September, 1951**

Travis Air Force Base was a bustle of activity. Uniformed personnel from every branch of the forces seemed to be passing through. It was warm, and Hawkeye loosened his tie and stripped off his jacket, bundling it under his arm as he hauled his bag across the tarmac and into the gleaming white terminal building.

He paused by the largest of the windows for a while, looking out across the runway.

For the first time, he smiled. America seemed quite, quite beautiful.

He was home! There was a blue sky overhead, criss-crossed with the vapour trails of various aircraft coming and going from this tiny little hub of activity. And then, just as suddenly, he was struck by the thought of how many of those planes could be carrying bombs and shells over the very country he had just left; of how many lives were destined to be blown apart by the contents of those aircraft.

His stomach churned, his thoughts assaulted with memories of broken bones and torn flesh. That sky didn't seem so pretty any more.

He turned away, regarding the comings and goings of numerous soldiers and officers. A proud sign on the wall declared Travis to be 'the gateway to the Pacific' and Hawkeye could see why. The procession of uniformed bodies was endless: so many faces passed him by, he couldn't begin to pick out one from the other. How many wouldn't make it back? On some level, perhaps, he thought he should be grateful, but as _The Star Spangled Banner_ continued to pump out via the PA system in a continuous, tinny litany, his hand closed angrily around the discharge in his pocket. ' _Land of the free, my ass…'_

There was a queue snaking across towards the M.A.T.S. desk, and Hawkeye tacked himself on the end of it. Progress was slow. His duffel bag seemed to weigh a ton. He dropped it onto the carpet and shunted it along with his feet.

The middle-aged officer in front of him turned and glowered at him, his accusing eyes travelling up from the grubby bag at Hawkeye's feet, then to the rumpled jacket under his arm, his loose tie, and finally to his unshaven face. "Would it kill you to treat that uniform with a little respect?"

Hawkeye shrugged. "I'm only treating it with the same respect the army treated me." A smirk crept across his face as the officer turned beet red and steam came out of his ears.

"Snotty upstarts like you don't deserve to serve in this man's army!"

"Oh – if only you'd been at my draft board!"

The officer sniffed in disgust, and turned away. Hawkeye stuck his tongue out at the back of his head, feeling delightfully rebellious, feeling something like his old self.

At last, Hawkeye found himself slumped at the desk in front of a stern-looking senior clerk. She glared at him from behind her horn-rimmed glasses. "Yes?"

"Uh…" Hawkeye pushed his papers gingerly across the desk. "Pierce, Benjamin Franklin. I need to get to Maine."

The clerk regarded his papers with the contempt he'd expected. "Oh, you do, huh?" she drawled at him.

"Yes, I do. Where do I need to go?"

"That would be San Francisco Municipal Airport." The clerk shoved his papers back across the desk with her fingertips. "Good day, Mister Pierce."

Hawkeye's heart somehow sank and pounded all at once. "Wait – _what_?"

Leaning over her desk, the clerk fixed him with a steely glare and pointed to the main doors with a fountain pen. "Out the double doors, take a hike up to the north gate, hang a left, and get on a _bus_. Next, please."

"Oh no no no, wait a minute!" Hawkeye waved his papers at her, his hackles rising. " Ten months ago, I flew out from Maine! _Maine_ – that's the other end of the country, in case you're unaware! I need to get home!"

Rolling her eyes, the clerk glowered at him. "Sir, what you are holding in your hand there is an _undesirable discharge_ , the conditions of which specify only so much as _your removal to U.S. soil_ , or, to put it plainly, military transportation _only_ as far as the nearest American port, which, in case you haven't figured out, is _here_." She jabbed a finger in the direction of the floor. " _In case you're unaware_."

Hawkeye's blood ran cold. The distance between himself and his father was suddenly frighteningly vast. He was in the middle of nowhere, in a State where he didn't know a soul, and he didn't have a scrap of cash on him. His hands started to shake and his eyes widened in panic. "You can't… you can't just kick me off the plane and _leave_ me here!"

"Actually, we can. Army policy dictates…"

"I spent a _year_ in a warzone, goddamn it! ! I didn't _ask_ to be there – I didn't ask to be drafted! I _did what you wanted_ , goddamn it, and _this_ is how you repay me?!"

The clerk waved her pen and continued to gaze airily down her nose at him. "I already told you: make your way to a civilian airport and make your own arrangements. _Next_!"

Hawkeye swallowed. He glanced across the crowded terminal to the glass doors. The morning sun was glinting outside, the hot concrete glowing like a desert. He glanced back up at the woman, and then, frantically, tugged open his duffel bag. The next person in line was already trying to push him out of the way. Hawkeye pushed back. "Now wait just a minute!"

The clerk huffed angrily through her nostrils. "Mister Pierce, I'm going to have to ask you to step aside!"

"Doctor!" Hawkeye's voice was muffled as he rummaged through his belongings. At last, he emerged triumphant, clutching a checkbook. "It's _Doctor_ Pierce, M.D. – military dischargee – and _surgeon_ , Boston General Hospital!"

The clerk rolled her eyes. "Are you finished, _Doctor_?"

"One more thing!" Hawkeye smiled winningly. "Would you mind cashing a check for me?"

She did mind. Hawkeye retreated back to his seat by the window and tried to work out what to do. Maybe if he could walk as far as Fairfield, he could find a bank and get some cash? Then he could catch a bus to San Francisco and work things out from there. He glared sullenly at his duffel bag – lugging that thing across town wouldn't be easy.

Oh, Christ! That was another problem: his footlocker! How was he supposed to…?

The memory hit him like a moment of divine inspiration. How could he had forgotten! He always used to keep a supply of cash rolled up in one of Trapper's old cigar tins for poker games. Forget a bank! Forget the bus! He could ride to San Francisco in a goddamned _limousine_! The army could go swivel! He'd be on a plane home in no time!

But where was the damned thing?

Hawkeye's heart leapt into his throat when he realised he'd abandoned it somewhere, expecting it to be transferred onto another flight. Somewhere down by the gate was his salvation! He had to get it back!

With some difficulty, he hauled his bag up onto his shoulder again and turned sharply back in the direction of the gates. Pushing past several disgruntled personnel, he broke into a run. His bag banged painfully against his leg, the strap digging into his shoulder.

At last, he reached the gate. Two crewmen were packing a luggage cart to go out to another plane, and Hawkeye practically collided with them as he staggered to a halt.

The smaller of the two glanced up, eyeing up curiously. "Can we help you with somethin'? You look like you're about to pop an artery."

"Uh… yeah! I think I left my–" Then, he saw it, shunted over to the far side, out of the way. He snapped his fingers. "That!"

"Oh. This yours?"

" _Yes_! It has to be… oh, please, _God_ it has to be… _thank you_!"

"Okay, buddy. Calm down! Jeez!"

The crewman shoved the footlocker in Hawkeye's direction, and the other helped him manoeuvre it onto a trolley. He practically wept with joy as they checked his name and waved him off. Eagerly, he wheeled the heavy trolley back to the main concourse, ducking into a corner so he could pop it open and retrieve his poker winnings. And to think of all the people who told him gambling never paid off! He could kiss every single one of his buddies who had put into that pot! He was going _home_!

The locker was a mess. It was more than apparent that his belongings had been packed with no real care. Some of his things were broken, and Hawkeye concluded that it was Frank, not Henry, who had taken it upon himself to get Hawkeye all packed up to ship out. At last, he found it: the cigar tin. His heart quickening, he prised at the lid with shaking fingers. It gave way with a loud _clang_.

It was empty.

Hawkeye wanted to throw up. "No… _no_!" He searched frantically through the rest of the locker, but he knew it was futile. The money was _here_! He knew it was! Somebody must have…

He threw the empty tin against the wall.

"Frank Burns, you son of a bitch!"

Several heads turned, and Hawkeye threw the tin back into his footlocker with a loud crash. His head was pounding. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep for the next twenty-four hours, but at this point he didn't even have a clue _where_ he was going to be sleeping, or any means to procure himself a bed for the night, or even to get himself to one. He leaned heavily against a wall, gazing out across the airfield.

A distant figure caught his attention.

"Stanley!"

The familiar sight of the man in his air force blues was like a beacon from heaven! His one friend in the whole of California! Stanley would help him! Stanley wouldn't leave him to languish in the streets!

Again, Hawkeye set off at a run, abandoning his footlocker, still open with its contents spilled out. His duffel bag weighed him down, and he flung it to one side in the corridor as he raced back to the gate once more. Out on the tarmac, he could see Stanley ushering a new flight load of passengers onto another plane. Hawkeye tried desperately to get his attention through the window, but he couldn't see.

" _Stanley_!" Hawkeye yelled again, racing up to the doors, where the same crewmen who had furnished him with his luggage were now closing up.

One of them grabbed him. Winded, Hawkeye nearly fell. The other grappled him as he tried to get free. "Hey, you can't go out there!"

Twisting frantically, Hawkeye fought to get loose. "What are you doing?!"

"This is a restricted area!"

"I need to speak to my friend!"

"Nobody goes out on that runway without papers or a permit!"

"He's right there! Just let me– _Stanley_! Look, this is really important! _Please_! _STANLEY!_ " Hawkeye screamed and bellowed until he was hoarse, but it was no use. Stanley couldn't hear him over the drone of the engines, and, after a few seconds of futile struggling, Hawkeye watched as the distant figure turned and disappeared up the steps into the aircraft, closing the door behind him, and Hawkeye was 'escorted' back inside the terminal.

He returned to his luggage in time to watch the plane take off from the main runway, taking with it the one person on this side of the country who might have been willing to help him.

Exhausted, he sank to the bench next to his footlocker and stared into the metal box, fingering his worthless possessions. His dirty magazines; his scruffy navy cardigan; his collection of ridiculous hats. He pulled his burgundy army-issue robe out of the mess, noting the torn sleeve from his scuffle with Burns. The memory made him sick to his stomach, and he shoved the garment away, shuddering.

Beneath it, he found the photo frame where he kept the picture of himself and his father, taken several years ago at Permaquid Point. The frame was now broken, and the glass cracked. Saddened, Hawkeye fished it out. The shattered glass came out easily, and the wooden frame came apart in his hands, leaving him cradling the photograph and the backing.

Only it wasn't one photograph, but two: behind the picture of the family holiday, there was a snap he'd taken in Tokyo a couple of months ago. He'd almost forgotten about it. He'd stashed it there for safekeeping, in a place where nobody might find it and get suspicious as to why he might want such a thing.

They'd been on leave, staying in a real hotel room with a real bed. The sheets were clean, and the drinks were many, and they'd fallen asleep naked on a crisp, white mattress. Hawkeye had taken the picture the next morning, just as Trapper was waking up. He had sheet across his lap and a smile on his face, and a look in his eyes that was half adoration and half hilarity.

Side by side, the two photographs seemed to paint a perfect picture of two very different sides of Hawkeye's life. On his right, the father who he adored and tried desperately to please, and on his left, the lover he had lost everything for. He realised with a heavy heart that the time would come when he could have to face his father and explain what had happened… possibly later today. It all depended on whether he was able to get himself out of this pickle he'd landed in without having to call his father for help.

It seemed impossible. But, as Hawkeye's gaze drifted back to the picture of Trapper, and his mind to simpler, happier times, Stanley's words echoed in his head. "He was worth it," Hawkeye murmured to himself.

Somehow, the thought spurred him on. He had been told to get himself to San Francisco, so, somehow, he would do just that. One way or another.

And, tucking the photographs into his empty wallet, and his belongings back into his footlocker, he gathered himself up and headed for the door, and out into the world, leaving behind on the bench a broken photo frame and one torn army medic's robe in burgundy corduroy.

* * *

The walk as long, and the morning was sticky. Hawkeye swiped the luggage trolley and didn't even feel remotely guilty about it. Eventually, he found a stand where there were buses heading into town. What there _weren't_ were bus drivers willing to take a penniless former draftee for no charge.

Hawkeye slumped on his footlocker in the bus stand, wilting in the sun as the day continued to heat up. He was starting to sweat, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

Time for plan B.

A taxi cab rolled past, and Hawkeye flagged it down. The driver peered through the window at the bedraggled ex-officer in his sweat-stained shirt. "Can I help you, pal?"

Hawkeye forced himself to smile. "I guess that depends. Is there _any_ chance you'd be willing to drive me to San Francisco Municipal Airport in exchange for a crisp, hand-written check?"

Again, the driver eyed Hawkeye's apparel. "I don't know. Frisco is a long way to go."

"Fine. Just take me into Fairfield. You can wait outside the bank while I get the cash, and if I welch on you, I swear to God I'll personally hold myself down so you can pummel me senseless. How does that sound?"

"A bank? In Fairfield? On a Saturday?"

"Oh. Is it Saturday? Sorry, I've been on a plane so long, my body clock's all wound down. Look – are you sure there's _nowhere_ I can some cash? A post office?"

"Fairfield's a small town – nothing's open Saturdays."

Hawkeye smiled a little. The only things open on Saturdays in Crabapple Cove were the restaurant and the bait store. "Okay, fine. Forget Fairfield. Get me to San Francisco. I _swear_ the check is good, and I'll tip you fifty percent! A _hundred_! Name it!"

The driver shook his head. "I'm sorry, buddy. No offence, but we see a lot of army rejects round this way, and I know a lot of guys who've had bad checks and fare-jumpers."

"Oh, come on!"

"It's nothing personal – I just can't."

"But I'm a doctor! I can _pay_! I'll get you the money! I'll… I'll give you a free nose job! I'll… I'll appendectomize you and all you children! Just help me out – _please_!"

But it was no use. The cab driver pulled away, leaving Hawkeye in the dust to retreat back to his footlocker. The next cab driver had the same story, as did the next, and Hawkeye's hopes began to vanish.

When the next bus pulled up, he didn't even bother to fight through the exodus in an attempt to talk to the driver – he knew what the answer would be anyway – so he just sat there, slumped on his footlocker.

Several men filed past, all in army uniforms, and all ignoring the bedraggled man sitting at the bus stand. Only the last in line paid him any mind.

"You okay there?"

Hawkeye looked up, right into the eyes of a tall young man in Class As, with kind eyes and a concerned smile. "I've been better."

"Anything I can do to help?"

The offer took Hawkeye by surprise. After having so many doors slammed in his face, he wasn't expecting sympathy from a perfect stranger. He glanced at the man's uniform, adorned with caduceus on the collar but no railroad tracks just yet. "You're a doctor."

"A surgeon – as of three months ago. You?"

"Ditto – up until two days ago. Just spent a year in a MASH unit, trying to knit soldiers out of entrails and sutures. Now I'm trying to get home."

"And where is home, exactly?"

"Maine."

The younger doctor whistled. "That's an awful long way to hitch hike. Surely the army ought to–"

Hawkeye gave a bitter bark of a laugh. "They ought to, but they won't. You see, me and General MacArthur had something of a difference of opinion, and he won't let me fly in his little airplanes anymore."

"I… see." Hawkeye immediately wondered if he'd given away too much – if the man was a local, as he seemed to be, he might figure it out for himself. But if he did, it didn't seem to affect his kindly nature. "If you can get to San Francisco, they have plenty of flights headed East. I should know – I live on the flight path."

"So I hear, but it's a twenty dollar cab ride to 'Frisco, Fairfield's all closed up for the weekend, and my cash reserves've been pickpocketed by a ferret with gold clusters."

The surgeon laughed, shaking his head. "Sounds awfully weasely of him!" Then, to Hawkeye's surprise, the man put his hand in the pocket of his new Class A uniform and took out his wallet. "Twenty bucks – that's quite a fare." Regardless, he extracted four crisp five-dollar bills and proffered them in Hawkeye's direction. "Still, lucky for you I made a trip to the bank yesterday."

Hawkeye gawped at the money. "What? No, I couldn't…"

"Well, you're in a tight spot…" He waved a hand dismissively, in a 'oh, it's nothing' gesture.

"But you don't know me!"

Shrugging, the surgeon gave him a warm smile. "Hey, I like to make it my prerogative to help people out when I can, and it seems to me that you're in a bit of a pickle."

"Yeah, but –"

"Go _on_ – take it! Look, I'm having a terrible day and it'd make me feel better to do a good deed for somebody."

Hawkeye hesitated. "You're shipping out?"

"Not quite – headed for basic training in Fort Sam Houston."

"Oh, that's not so bad – take it from a guy who already did the training _and_ the job."

The young man's face fell ever so slightly. "And… my wife's about to have a baby."

"Oh…" Hawkeye felt a pang of sympathy. "Well, that's not a problem I had. There's no way you'll be back for…"

"Only if Peg crosses her legs for two weeks."

"Damn. That's harsh." Shaking his head, Hawkeye stared at the sidewalk. He didn't have the heart to take money from this unfortunate, sweet-natured human being. Standing, he folded the man's fingers gently around the offered bills and pushed his hand away. "Look, do yourself a favour – spend that twenty bucks on something nice for your kid when you get back."

"Hey, come on! Just let me–"

"No, no! I couldn't!"

"It's nothing, really!" He held the money out again. "Take it!"

Eyeing the cash in his hand, Hawkeye stared at him. "You're really not taking 'no' for an answer, are you?"

Smiling, the young man in the Class As tucked the bills triumphantly into Hawkeye's hand. "No, I'm really not."

Hawkeye stared at him, quite overwhelmed. "Thank you… I don't know what to… _Thank_ _you_!" It didn't quite seem to cut it, so he gave the man a warm, firm handshake. "And do me a favour: when you get back from Fort Sam Houston, be sure to make the most of your last few months of freedom in case they ship _you_ off to Korea."

The young man's eyes glistened slightly, and he nodded. "I don't think it's a question of 'if' but 'when'. But… I'll take your advice, I guarantee it. And you – take care of yourself, you hear?" He made a move towards the air base, but paused, shooting Hawkeye one last glance. "Good luck, Doctor."

"Thanks – I need it."

Luck, it turned out, was on his side: a taxi cab rounded the corner, and Hawkeye waved frantically. This time, the driver accepted the job, and helped Hawkeye with his footlocker, too. As they slammed the trunk, Hawkeye turned, calling up the street to the mysterious stranger was who had been so generous. "Hey – wait! I didn't catch your…"

But he was already out of sight.

* * *

The trip went smoothly and quickly. The freeways and even the city were mercifully quiet. Staring out of the window, Hawkeye stared at the gleaming white skyscrapers and the rolling hills. San Francisco was really a fantastic city, and the airport was right off the freeway. The road curved around in a gigantic loop, circling around an enormous parking lot packed full of vehicles glistening in the sunlight, and butting up alongside a gleaming, modern terminal building. Soon, Hawkeye found himself standing on the concrete outside, his footlocker deposited beside him. He was one step closer to home. Now, all he had to do…

"Hey, buddy!"

Hawkeye spun around. "Huh?"

The cab driver was leaning out of the window scowling at him. "When we said twenty bucks, I figured you'd be adding a tip!"

Hawkeye cringed a little. "I'm sorry – I meant including. I don't have anything else."

"Are you _kidding_ me?"

Grimacing, Hawkeye felt his hackles rising. "Believe me, there's _nothing_ funny about the situation I'm in right now…"

The argument deteriorated quickly into a slanging match, until, eventually, the cab pulled away with a squeal of tyres, leaving Hawkeye cradling his aching head. He was exhausted – his last nerve was shot, and one emotional jolt would probably be enough to tear it clean apart. If he could just get through the rest of the trip…

"I leave you alone for five minutes, an' you're already causin' trouble with the locals."

Hawkeye's heart leapt into his mouth, and he stared over his shoulder. No… surely, not even with the best luck in the universe, he couldn't have… " _Trapper_!"

Hawkeye turned, his legs trembling. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

As a smile rose on Trapper's face, he dashed forward, as if compelled by some irresistible force, tossed his bag aside, and enveloped Hawkeye in an almost painfully tight bear hug. Hawkeye wanted to cry – perhaps the only reason he didn't was because Trapper had squeezed all the air out of him. When he finally let him go, he could practically feel himself welling up. "I never thought I'd see you again."

"Yeah, me neither!" Trapper's eyes were glistening and he was smiling from ear to ear.

"I figured you'd be long gone!"

"I got in late last night – had to spend the night in some lousy hotel downtown." He paused for a moment, then lowered his voice. "I missed you."

They hugged again, and this time when they parted, Trapper cast a glance up and down the street. Finding it empty – most of the passengers were using the doors furthest away near the crossing – his eyes flickered to Hawkeye's lips. "Aw, to hell with it!" The next thing he knew, Hawkeye found himself pinned against a pillar outside the terminal, being passionately kissed, and there, in the shadows between the concrete columns, they had they own secret reunion.

Hawkeye welcomed him with open arms. Suddenly, all those wonderful times he'd recounted to Stanley on the plane rushed through his head in a beautiful montage. The nights in the supply tent, the weekends in Tokyo, the evenings in Seoul. It was all he could do to avoid sighing into Trapper's mouth.

At last they pulled apart, lingering inches away from one another, unable to let go. "I shouldn't oughta've done that…" Trapper frowned, licking his lips a little.

Hawkeye beamed at him. A warm feeling blossomed in Hawkeye's belly. Trapper really was a sight for sore eyes – still in his class As, jacket unbuttoned, his cap slightly askew and his tie loosened – it was a look Hawkeye associated with weekend-long sex marathons in Tokyo hotels, and he couldn't wipe the delighted grin off his face if he tried. "It's okay, nobody's watching."

He tried to kiss him again, but Trapper's momentary recklessness clearly had a shelf life of about thirty seconds. He pulled back, moving away and scooping up his bag from where he'd dropped it. "What with you bein' here an' everythin', I'm guessin' the army dropped you in Frisco too?"

"You'd be right there, soldier. A charming lady in the M.A.T.S office _very_ kindly informed me that the only way _this_ fairy would be flying out of Travis was if he sprouted wings!"

Trapper shoved his hands in his pockets. "Don't talk like that."

"And to top it all off, the army took my pay and Frank stole all my poker winnings!"

"You're kiddin' me?!"

"Why does everybody keep asking me that? What's to kid about? The only reason I've got this far is because some freshly-drafted army doctor took pity on me and gave me twenty bucks for a cab!"

Trapper raised his eyebrows. "Takin' money off strange doctors? I warned you about that." Smirking, Trapper wagged his finger.

"I _tried_ to catch his name, but he'd gone!" Hawkeye smiled a little to himself. "You're not jealous, are you?" he asked playfully.

He got no reply. Trapper's smile vanished, and he occupied himself with fishing in his pockets for his smokes.

Hawkeye changed the subject. "How was your flight?"

Trapper scowled into the middle distance and lit himself a cigarette. "Terrible. Between you an' me, I think they were so desperate _not_ to stick us on the same flight, they put me in some old cargo plane that ain't even designed for passengers! Just me an' two crew members, an' not an ounce of conversation between 'em! You?"

"Wasn't so bad. I sat in the mail hold with the flight officer and slept on the mailbags."

Trapper's eyes widened.

"Not _with_ the flight officer! You think I want to ruin two peoples' careers in a single weekend?!"

The look on Trapper's face told Hawkeye that he'd made a joke in rather poor taste.

"Sorry."

"Forget it." Trapper waved his hand and glanced up at the terminal. "Look, we got ourselves into this situation, so I figure we gotta deal with it. What d'ya say we grab ourselves a couple'a pre-flight Martinis an' then get our butts on a plane?"

Hawkeye's heart skipped a beat. "I think that's a great idea."

Trapper tossed his smoke into the gutter, and they picked up their luggage, hauling it, with some difficulty, into the terminal.

It wasn't easy. The carpet was clingy, and the terminal was a flurry of activity. Trapper, fortunately, seemed to have acquired himself a suitcase and downsized somewhere along his journey. The pair of them drew a few glances walking through in uniform, lugging Hawkeye's footlocker. Hawkeye couldn't care less about the attention. He was high as a kite, anticipating a long flight made bearable by having Trapper at his side.

But Trapper had other things on his mind. He was edgy and twitchy, but set on his mission for a pre-flight drink, and Hawkeye was happy to go along with whatever he had in mind. Soon, they were parked up outside the little airport bar, Trapper's case sat neatly atop Hawkeye's footlocker, each of them clutching a genuine, perfectly mixed, dry Martini.

Hawkeye couldn't stop smiling. It felt like a date – a _real_ date – the kind they'd never really had. Maybe it was the heady rush of excitement he'd got from seeing Trapper again, but he felt giddy as a schoolboy. The airport was bright and loud, but their little table felt cosy and romantic. Hawkeye beamed over his glass. "Isn't this incredible?"

Trapper took a sip and sighed with satisfaction. "Damned straight. This is the first taste of decent gin I've had in a year!"

"I mean _us_!" Hawkeye practically reached across the table and grabbed his hand before he could stop himself. "You and me, finding each other in a city this big! Meeting up again after travelling thousands of miles across the Pacific! And now here we are, drinking genuine American cocktails in a genuine American bar! I mean, what are the odds?"

He knew he was gushing, but he couldn't help himself. After the misery of the past twenty-four hours, Trapper's presence was like a beacon of hope at the end of a long, dark tunnel. He couldn't wait to tell him about the jerks on the plane and the surly woman at Travis – and about Stanley, and the kindly doctor who took pity on him and got him as far as San Francisco.

And yet, by that same token, he didn't want to sound self-absorbed. "How did your court martial go?" He swirled his Martini in his glass, hoping to contain his delight for long enough to be the sensitive, caring pillar of support Trapper so obviously needed right now.

Trapper shuddered and scowled into his drink. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Okay." Hawkeye shifted uncomfortably and sought for another topic. "What do you wanna talk about?"

Chuckling, Trapper looked up at him, a bittersweet smile on his face. "I really don't know, Hawk. I never imagined even seein' you again, let alone sittin' in a bar with you, makin' conversation. It's all a little bit too much to take in, you know?"

Hawkeye smiled warmly. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I feel the same way…" He lowered his voice and leaned a little closer. "I also feel like I want to kiss you again."

Trapper gave another embarrassed little laugh. "Steady, Hawk."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to."

Trapper merely nodded and fiddled with his glass. "Look, I got a plane leavin' for Boston in about a half hour, but I ain't about to leave you high an' dry on the other side of the country. You know where you're goin' from here, right?"

"That's a good question…" Hawkeye gave a melancholy little laugh.

"I just wanna know that you can get home safe. Are you okay bookin' yourself a flight? Because if there's anythin' you need, just name it. Anythin' I can do…"

Hawkeye smiled. Something about that concerned, earnest look on Trapper's face just made him melt. "As long as they take check, I'll be fine."

Trapper nodded and gave him a tense smile. "That's great." He downed his drink, and Hawkeye followed suit. "C'mon, let's get you booked in."

As they made their way to the booking office, it became apparent that the gods were feeling merciful: a sign above the booking office informed him that they took checks. They joined the queue for tickets, propping their luggage up as they had done before. The queue was short, but Trapper was twitchy and uncomfortable, staring at the crowds like a rabbit in headlights. He swayed from foot to foot, tugging at his cuffs. Hawkeye asked his repeatedly what the matter was. On the third attempt, he told him: "Do you think they know?"

Hawkeye suddenly understood, and shrugged casually. "Not unless you're planning on kissing me again."

Trapper hissed at him. "No, I mean… we're obviously a couple'a discharges! People might figure it out."

"Does it _matter_?"

Glancing about the room again, Trapper bit his lip. "I guess not…"

He stood for a while, and Hawkeye had to admit, his mere presence was a welcoming comfort. He wasn't alone in the world anymore. Smiling to himself, he leaned a little closer, just feeling the solid weight of Trapper's body at his back. Then the businessman in front of them moved away and headed up to the desk, and he had to shift his luggage again.

Trapper groaned as he hauled Hawkeye's footlocker along the carpeted floor.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, it's just this thing's heavy is all."

"I'd offer you a backrub but this is hardly the place or the time."

Hawkeye saw Trapper flinch at his suggestion, and wished he could bite back his words. Now, he remained quiet, waiting patiently in silence.

Until Trapper broke it: "They tried to get me to name people."

It took Hawkeye a second or two to realise that he was talking about the court martial. They were now at the front of the queue with nobody in the immediate vicinity, their words drowned out by the dull drone of conversation. "What? Other guys you'd slept with? That's gonna be one heck of a short list."

Trapper shook his head. "Nah. Other guys I thought _you_ might've… Turns out your name's cropped up on a couple'a lists an' somebody in Congress picked up your case an' asked the panel to do some diggin'." He sniffed disdainfully. "I told 'em I didn't know anybody. I mean I _don't_ know, an' don't _wanna_ know, I don't think." He laughed bitterly. "I mean, if they wanted to know about queers in the military, I was the worst guy to ask! The only name I could think of was Weston, an' I ain't about to drop him in it to keep _them_ happy! An' now I'm thinkin'… maybe they'd'a gone easy on me if I'd…"

"You did the right thing, Trap." Hawkeye spoke in a hushed whisper but with unshakeable certainty.

But Trapper barely heard him. He was gazing into the middle distance, across the crowded terminal, his brow creased in worry. "I spoke to the defence lawyer the military set me up with. He said I should… if I told 'em you'd… talked me into it or somethin', an' agreed to see an army shrink about my 'problem', they might let me off."

Hawkeye shuddered. He'd too had been forced to sit through a half hour session with an army psychiatrist, and he couldn't imagine Trapper faring well. "Well, that sounds like a barrel of laughs."

"I couldn't do it, Hawk. Not with you sat there in the stockade. I mean, who knows what they'd do to you if they thought…"

Hawkeye's blood ran cold. He felt physically winded by the sudden knowledge that, at Trapper's word, he could have been labelled a sexual predator; probably sentenced to the full six months, if not more. But Trapper had stood his ground. What could Hawkeye possibly say that could do his gratitude justice? Gently, he grasped Trapper's arm, angling himself so as to conceal the gesture from the prying eyes of the world.

"Is it bad," Trapper continued, his voice cracking, "that I keep thinkin', ' _I had a way out'_!? An' I didn't take it – because I couldn't do that to you. An' now I gotta go home an' face my wife, my parents… Christ, my _kids_..." At that, Trapper's voice cracked completely, and he pulled away from Hawkeye, dumping his jacket on their luggage. "I gotta go to the john."

This, of course, was code for Trapper needing to take five to dry his eyes and compose himself. He took off, leaving Hawkeye alone to contemplate the vast implications of his words, and to twiddle his thumbs alone for a few minutes while he waited, and suddenly he was struck by a bizarre sinking feeling that he didn't much care for.

"Next, please!"

The voice of the booking agent snapped him out of it, and he stepped up to the desk.

"Where to, Sir?"

"Uh… I uh…" His eyes wandered over to the departures board, where Trapper's Boston flight, announced clearly in bold, unmoveable black and white, loomed ever closer. He hesitated, not quite able to imagine tearing himself away from the man in as little as thirty minutes. "Tell me, if I get a flight to Maine does that go via Boston?"

The clerk checked her departures timetable. "It usually does."

"Oh?" Hawkeye's pulse quickened a little.

"Oh – not on Saturdays. The Portland flight changes at Chicago on Saturdays. Is that a problem?"

Hawkeye winced. He had two options – he could say goodbye to Trapper right here and now, in the airport, and go home to face his father, or he could go to Boston with his lover and best friend, maybe salvage his civilian job in Boston General, or at least find another… and he'd have Trapper with him…

Suddenly, for the first time in months, Crabapple Cove was no longer the most attractive option.

"Got yourself on a flight yet?" It was Trapper who asked the question, sidling up beside Hawkeye, largely refreshed and cheerful, save for the red circles around his eyes.

"Looks like I've got a choice – my father's house in Maine, or my job in Boston General."

Trapper's eyes widened. "You comin' to Boston?"

Hawkeye looked up at him. There was a hopeful look on his face, and an almost pleading look in his eyes. They couldn't have the conversation he so desperately wanted to have – not in front of the booking clerk – and he didn't have long to decide. "You want me to?"

"You're askin' me?"

"Who else am I gonna ask? What should I do? Give up on the civilian job I have waiting for me and go cry on my father's couch for six months? Or… do I…?"

Trapper sighed, shaking his head. "Aw, hell! Hawk, it's your life. I don't..." He paused, glanced up at him once more, mulled it over for a short while, and then glanced at his watch. The Boston plane would be boarding soon. "Well… you gotta talk to your boss sooner or later."

Hawkeye took a deep breath, and took out his check-book. "I'll have a one-way ticket to Boston, hold the beans."

* * *

It was night-time when they touched down. Theirs was the last plane in, and Boston airport was quiet, which came as something of a relief, as the curious stares directed at them were now fewer and further between. Their fellow passengers on the flight from San Francisco had been more than marginally intrigued by the presence of the two men in formal military garb. Trapper was still convinced that they somehow knew the exact details of their discharge from a single glance, but Hawkeye was assured it was simply because they stood out a mile in their Class As – and were so ruggedly handsome to boot. Nonetheless, Trapper had ordered three double Scotches throughout the flight, growing increasingly quiet and morose as Hawkeye pointed out landmarks through the window, and flinching every time he touched him.

But Hawkeye understood: he'd been a little twitchy himself after that dealings with the court martial. "I'll sit on my hands from now on," he whispered with a smile after Trapper had shaken his hand from his arm for the third time. And so he did.

But whatever fear was gripping him didn't stop Trapper from falling asleep on his shoulder somewhere over Pennsylvania. Hawkeye resisted the urge to take his hand as he slept, and instead, he just sat there, watching him as the setting sun cast a warm orange glow over his face, and then faded. By the time Trapper stirred, the sun was long gone, and he awoke to the sight of shining stars, and Hawkeye's pale blue eyes.

They he held back a little at the gate upon landing, letting other passengers go on ahead, and Hawkeye grinned shamelessly at the realisation that they could now have a few minutes alone. With fewer people around, a feeling of excitement bubbled up within him. Maybe it was irrational; maybe with everything he had been through and everything he now faced, he shouldn't feel this way, but here he was, with Trapper – the man who had turned down a potential promise of exoneration in order to keep him out of prison – it was all he could do not to wrap his arms around him right there on the tarmac and hold him tightly and never let go.

Walking through the near-deserted airport, each pushing their luggage on squeaky trollies, Hawkeye marvelled at the strange mix of emotion swirling within him. They were _out_! The circumstances had been dire, and the consequences yet to be seen, but they were free of the army, free from the disapproving gaze of Frank Burns and the judgemental barbs shot at them by former friends! For the first time since he had left for Korea almost a year ago, Hawkeye felt _free_. In spite of everything, his heart ached from the relief of it all!

He glanced over to Trapper, unsure of whether to share his thoughts or not.

He decided against it: Trapper was still quiet and tense, speaking only to mutter directions to Hawkeye as they navigated their way past all the gates. Hawkeye didn't pay much attention to where they were going – he just followed as Trapper pointed at signs and indicated which way to the terminal building. They walked and walked, pacing along the wide, curving corridor, and eventually they reached the desired exit. Trapper held the door for him, and Hawkeye tipped his hat and declared "thank you, my darling!" in a manner that Trapper might have taken issue with, had anybody overheard. The air hit him as soon as he stepped outside, unpleasantly cool, but a reassuringly familiar New England Fall.

There was a shuttle bus that ferried passengers from the gates to the terminals, but Trapper held back again and caught Hawkeye's arm. "Let's uh… let's wait awhile, huh? Take a walk, just the two of us?"

Hawkeye smiled, the ache inside him fading to a warm, pleasant glow. "That's a good idea…" The other passengers boarded the bus, and it rumbled off ahead. They were alone together. He wondered briefly if Trapper was going to kiss him again, but, despite giving him a long, lingering look, there was no such luck.

Hawkeye didn't mind – the quiet solitude was pleasant enough.

They walked, Hawkeye beaming all the way, delighted by everything that reminded him of home: the weather, the smells, the sounds. They passed through the terminal building, waved on by customs with little more than a glance, and, at last, out into the street.

Here, at the side of the road, surrounded by bus stands and transit maps, Hawkeye came to a halt. The city lay before them, but there was no plan laid out for them from here on out. From here on out, they were on their own.

Rubbing his hands a little in the cold, Hawkeye turned to face Trapper. "So… where do we go from here?"

Looking back, he would agonise numerous times over how stupid he must have sounded; how blithely optimistic and deluded his question must have seemed. Even as he said it, he felt a cold stab of dread; he sensed the voice of reason in the back of his mind screaming at him to stop.

But Hawkeye didn't stop. Hawkeye smiled nervously and continued to blather. "All I know is the one-twenty-two bus takes us right to my apartment, but I don't think the guy who's renting it right now would be too happy if we roll up now! We could get a hotel? How about that? A nice hotel with clean sheets, no lice, and a _bar_. I'd kill for a decent Martini right now!"

One look at Trapper, and the cold, anxious feeling rose a little more. Trapper was staring miserably into the middle distance, his face drawn with worry.

"Trapper?" Hawkeye took his hand gently – there was nobody looking – and stepped close. "Aw, Trap, c'mon! It'll be okay. Look on the bright side – we're _home_! Stateside! You and me, together! In all kinds of weather!"

Trapper looked up at him. "It's been one hell of a storm these past few days."

"Then we'll weather this one, too." Hawkeye gave a theatrical shrug, waxing poetic as he always did. But Trapper still looked glum. "Come _on_! We got this far! We can _do this_!" He squeezed Trapper's hands, brimming with adrenaline, willing him to perk up.

But Trapper didn't. He frowned, worrying at his lower lip, and he shook his head. "Hawkeye, sit down…"

"What's the matter?" He didn't know why he was asking. He already knew. He knew but he didn't want to know. He had to hear it, but he didn't want to believe it.

Sinking onto a bench, Trapper clasped his hands together, shaking a little. "We ain't gonna do this, Hawk. No buses, no hotels. This is… it's the end of the line."

Hawkeye just stared. His blood ran cold. There was a ringing in his ears, as if Trapper's words were shells dropping around him. His tone was gentle, apologetic even, but his meaning was brutal. Hawkeye stammered, his voice and his body shaking in unison. "I… uh… b-but…? _Here_? _Now_?"

Trapper stared at the sidewalk. "My wife's pickin' me up any minute now, an' I'm goin' home."

Hawkeye continued to stare at him. "Your wife…?" His voice came out like a frightened squeak, his throat tightening. "You mean we're not even gonna…"

"It's not an option, Hawk!" Trapper snapped at him, tension giving way to anger.

"Not an option? What are you saying?"

"I'm _sayin'_ I gotta go home to Louise an' my girls an'… an' make things right!"

Hawkeye crumbled, his whole body shaking, his stomach clenching into a tight ball of nausea. "Not… not now. One more night… We can have one more night!" His shaking fingers grasped desperately at Trapper's shoulders and lapels. "Louise doesn't have to know."

"Goddamnit, I _called_ her from 'Frisco last night!" Trapper's anger was more at himself than anyone else, but Hawkeye backed off nonetheless. Wincing, Trapper ran a hand through his curls and beat his knee with his fist, shaking his head. "She already _knows_. I told her. Told her everythin'… Well, _I_ didn't know I was gonna see you again! I figured we were done! _Finito_! I said my goodbyes in that stockade in Seoul!"

Hawkeye blinked. "But… the court martial… You _protected me_! I thought… You _told_ me to come to Boston with you, goddamn it!"

"Yeah, because you _live_ here!" Rising, Trapper gestured to the city on the horizon. "Because you said you had a _job_ waitin' at Boston General an' I didn't want to see you screw _that_ up along with _everythin' else_!"

Trapper's words cut deep. His eyes stinging, Hawkeye curled in on himself, lowering himself none-too-steadily onto his footlocker. He should have prepared himself for this. He hadn't even noticed how badly he'd wanted Trapper by his side until he'd thought he would be there. And now, to find out he was leaving, just as he'd managed to come to terms with how he felt… it was like somebody had pushed him to the edge of some mountainous precipice just for the sake of throwing him off. He curled in on himself, burying his face in his hands.

Trapper couldn't look at him. "Cut that out, Hawk…" He turned away, his voice cracking. "Come on! Don't make this harder than it already is. I got two kids; I got a wife I ain't seen in a year. I never said anythin' about leavin' my family for you, an' I'm _sorry_ if that's what you thought, but when I got you on that flight with me, I wasn't lookin' to do anythin' 'cept make sure you were safe an' try an' get you back on your feet. This ain't gonna carry on. I don't know why in the heck you figured it was, but…"

' _Because I love you. And I thought you loved me._ ' Had Hawkeye looked up, he would have seen the tears in Trapper's eyes, but he didn't. He saw nothing but darkness, heard nothing but silence as the impact of Trapper's words hit him. Once again, he was alone – not because the army had cast him out and abandoned him, but because _Trapper_ had. The hope he had felt when he had scooped him up in his arms in broad daylight outside San Francisco airport terminal now felt like a lie, and he realised with sickening clarity that he'd been kidding himself that there was even the tiniest possibility that they might wind up together. His over-optimistic dreams of taking on the world together had been nothing but the manic glee of a deluded madman, high on his own elaborate, impossible fantasy.

The crunch of tyres on asphalt, and the blinding beams of a pair of oncoming headlights, snapped him out of his miserable trance. He stood, and Trapper whipped around like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A gleaming white Chevrolet pulled up, and, a moment later, Louise McIntyre stepped out onto the tarmac.

She didn't say a word. Her eyes passed briefly over her husband, and then locked with Hawkeye's, her expression making it clear that she knew damned well who he was. Hawkeye shuddered under her gaze. He knew what she was thinking. He could tell because he was thinking it too: ' _That's my competition_ …' The only difference was that he'd lost.

She wasn't what he'd imagined. He knew Trapper's taste in women well enough – or so he'd thought – and Louise didn't fit that at all. She was tall, almost formidable-looking, with dramatic make-up, angular features, and a modest, old-fashioned dress. Aside from her dark hair, pulled back into a bun, she reminded Hawkeye more of Margaret Houlihan than any of the nurses Trapper had dated in Korea.

Without a word, Louise walked round to the back of the car, and popped the trunk. She stood, unmoving and in silence, waiting for Trapper to load his things.

For one last time, Trapper turned to face Hawkeye. Even now, Hawkeye's heart leapt, like he was waiting for Trapper to change his mind. In his mind's eye, he begged him not to leave. Instead, he glanced in Louise's direction, and a bitter joke tripped off his tongue: "Don't keep the lady waiting…"

Trapper didn't laugh. "Listen, Hawk…"

There was that feeling of hope again. "Trapper…"

Trapper's eyes were sorrowful, glistening with unshed tears. In the space of mere seconds, Hawkeye's mind played out a vision in which Trapper grasped his hand, kissed him, and told him he would always love him. And then another where he declared that couldn't bring himself to leave…

But there was no change of heart. There was no sudden declaration of love. There was no tender goodbye. Instead, Trapper opened his wallet, fished out a small bundle of notes, and pressed them into Hawkeye's hand, and decided on the last words he would ever say to him. "Go get yourself a motel."

Hawkeye's hand closed around Trapper's fingers on reflex, but a moment later, his hand slipped free, leaving Hawkeye holding nothing but a handful of cold, hard cash. He watched helplessly, rooted to the spot, as, for the second time, Trapper John McIntyre walked out of his life – this time, not pulled away by a Military Policeman, or forcibly removed by order of the US Army, but of his own free will, walking back to his wife. Again, there had been no goodbye; again, Hawkeye was bereft of words. Just as he had done with Carlye, he'd never realised the depth of his feelings until it was too late, and he'd never said a word – just watched his love walk away out of his life.

Trapper loaded his belongings into the car, and Louise slammed the trunk. He didn't even look at Hawkeye as he slipped into the passenger side, but Louise shot him another long, hard glare. Her car door slammed, the engine started, and the shiny white Chevrolet vanished into the night. Hawkeye sank onto the kerb, numb, nauseous, and trembling. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't think. Meanwhile, in the distance, the city of Boston rumbled on, its lights shining, its people living out their lives. ' _Welcome home_ …'


	7. Epilogue

**Boston, Massachusetts - September, 1951**

Hawkeye kicked the door closed behind him, plunging the room into darkness. He hadn't drawn the curtains that morning, and the dark olive material blotted out the sun with impressive efficiency. Hawkeye debated leaving the light off, just so he wouldn't have to look at his surroundings.

' _No_ ,' he thought to himself. He couldn't sit here in the dark. That was too pathetic.

Reluctantly, he flicked the light on.

The motel room wasn't actually all that bad. The money that Trapper had given him had been enough to afford him a reasonable place to stay for a few days. It was just that he hated the décor: too much green. Boy, was he sick of green!

He sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, staring at his shoes. The cheap suit he had bought that morning was warm and itchy, and his shirt already felt damp. He wondered if he could perhaps get his army one laundered and wear that.

Not that there was much point. A couple of hours ago he had walked into the hospital where he had been working in the Fall of 1950 as a bright, promising young surgeon just starting out in the field. Now, he was a disgraced army reject. He'd done his best to walk into his boss's office with his head held high, but as soon as the secretary asked to see his discharge papers, he knew this was only going to end one way. He'd always known, it was just that it wasn't until now that the inevitability of it all began to sink in. She asked him to wait – so, Hawkeye waited. The Chief of Staff was brought in as he had sat sweating on a chair in the corner, and the grim expression on his face said it all. Hawkeye was called into the office.

The full process had taken less than five minutes. Afterwards, he would scarcely recall the details of the conversation. He remembered laughing as the older doctor had questioned him on the details of his departure from the Forces, again, bitterly amused by the awkward, clinical questions. His reactions were, he could only assume, little help, and he left with a formal notification of his dismissal in his hand. He didn't even read it – he just slipped it into his pocket next to his military discharge. On his way back through the hospital, he had to detour and duck into one of the bathrooms to throw up. ' _This can't be happening_ ,' his brain – and, apparently, his stomach – kept telling him. Only it _was_ happening. It had, in fact, happened. As he washed his face and stared at his reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror, he tried to tell the forlorn-looking man who gazed back at him with red-rimmed eyes that he would probably never practice medicine again.

It was almost too much to fathom. He counted through the years of hard work and thousands of dollars of college fees. He remembered how he'd thrown away a wonderful relationship with a wonderful woman because he couldn't focus on anything but his residency. He recalled how he'd nearly broken down with the stress over his finals in pre-med, knowing that his acceptance into medical school was at stake; how he worked constant double shifts in his internship, and collapsed in a lecture hall after three days without sleep. He'd sacrificed so much, and all for what? What was it all worth now?

He'd cried on the bus back to the motel. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried in front of strangers, and he'd tried desperately to hold it together until he could retreat into his little room and muffle his sobs with a pillow, but it hadn't worked. He'd just sat silently with his head resting on the window, his hat askew, and tears running down his cheeks. He didn't make a sound, but a few people noticed. He heard their ill-concealed whispers well enough. He didn't know what was more humiliating – the fact that he was crying in public, or the fact that he'd obviously just been fired. Why else would a grown man in a business suit be sitting on a bus in the middle of the day looking so utterly sorry for himself?

Now, safe in the solitude (loneliness) of his motel room, he toed off his shoes – nasty, uncomfortable things the army had given him to wear with his Class As – emptied his pockets onto the dresser, and padded over to the TV. He was grateful he'd been able to afford a room with a television – the noise made for pleasant company, and he needed a distraction from the chaos of his own thoughts – but he was all too aware that with no job, the money would run out before long, and he couldn't afford to live in hotels forever.

He hit the button on the front of the set, and the picture burst into life. ' _Howdy Doody'_ was on, but Hawkeye wasn't in the mood for kids' entertainment. He flicked through and found a talk show – a male quartet talking shop with an all-too-cheery host. Hawkeye let the show run, letting the idle chatter wash over him. It was hot and sticky in his pokey little room, and he unbuttoned his shirt, tugging at the collar. A glint of metal caught his eye: he still hadn't taken his dog tags off. Somehow, the memory of Trapper clutching at them as he kissed him had rendered the nasty tin military marker far too precious to take off. And now, while Trapper was presumably making amends with his wife somewhere a few miles away, the freshly discharged Captain Pierce, B.F., 19905607, curled up on an uncomfortable motel bed and sought comfort from cold, hard metal.

What could he do now? His savings had dwindled to nothing while he had been away. He'd expected his year on army pay to take its toll, but he had been horrified to find out that his combined vices of drinking and gambling had almost wiped him out. He had next to nothing left, and nowhere to go. There was an oncologist renting his apartment – one who, by the time news of Dr. Pierce's dismissal filtered through the hospital rumour mill, would probably not be willing to do him any favours – and he wasn't even sure if he could face the gruelling task of trying to find work with an undesirable discharge staining his record. The whole thing was just overwhelming. His thoughts raced for a solution, but the more he sought, the more lost and afraid he felt.

He glanced at the bundle of notes sitting on the dresser, atop his discharges from both his military and civilian careers. He couldn't think of a better metaphor for his lot right now. His relationship with Trapper – his ridiculous, unintended, intense romance with a married man – had paid off to a grand total of twenty bucks, and a deficit of his entire medical career. Not to mention a broken heart. The stranger outside of Travis had given him just as much!

He wanted to be angry, either with Trapper, or with himself, he wasn't sure who. As he sat in his pokey little motel room, in his cheap suit, he tried to imagine Trapper safe at home with his wife and daughters. He tried to resent him, tried to hate him, but the feeling just wasn't there. He _envied_ him, yes, but… all he could think about was how this might just be tolerable if Trapper was here beside him. They could have got through this together. They could have…

He breathed deeply, determined not to start crying again. The quartet on the TV had finished their interview, and begun some maudlin love song that Hawkeye was in no mood to hear. ' _Is it a sin to love you so, to hold you close and know you are leaving? Though you take away my heart, dear, still the beating there within. I'll keep loving you forever, for it's no sin…_ '

Hawkeye rose from the bed and hit the off switch, plunging the room into silence. Sniffing, he crossed the room to the telephone on the nightstand and jabbed at the button for an outside line. "Hello? Operator, I need to put a call through to Maine. Doctor Daniel Pierce, Lincoln County, five-four-six-nine-five…" As the operator set about connecting the call, Hawkeye stared forlornly at the wall. He knew there was only one option – he'd already surveyed the bus times and ticket prices when he'd changed at the terminus…

"Hello?"

A lump rose in Hawkeye's throat. "Dad?"

There was a pause. "Benjy, is that you?"

Hawkeye laughed. His father rarely called him that… "Yeah, it's me. Um… listen, big surprise! I'm back in the States!"

Another pause, and then delighted laughter from the other end of the line. "Oh, that's _great_! My God, I… It's so good to hear your voice!"

Even on the phone, Hawkeye felt he had to fake a smile. He couldn't tell him. He couldn't let him know, but the mask was already cracking, and he heard his voice wavering even as he tried to sound cheerful; tried to smile through the tears. Just… play along, get home, and try and move on. Forget Korea, forget medicine, forget Trapper. "Look, Dad?" He could feel himself starting to cry again, and he wiped furiously at his face, unable to stop. "Can you… can you pick me up in Portland tomorrow night? Eight o'clock?... No, no, the bus station. Yeah, you got it, Dad. I'm coming home."

And, as his father celebrated at the other end of the line, hundreds of miles away, former surgeon Hawkeye Pierce sat in a motel room and wept silently into a telephone receiver.

* * *

 **Afterword:** _Is it the end? Is it heck! Tune in next week for more from the boys. Next week, we go to Maine._


End file.
